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D O E A N 0 E 


R. R/ NELSON 



h^'ism 

,JJ^HINGT0 


f 


NEW YORK 


JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHEE 
1889 



Co})yrigl)t, 188 '^, 
BY 


JOHN B. ALDEN. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER. PAGE. 

I. The Fugitives, .... 9 

II. A Refuge, - - . . . 13 

III. The Slave Question, - . . . 20 

IV. A Prayer for Death, - . . . 25 

V. Remorse, ..... 31 

VI. Elsie, ...... 42 

VII. The Shadow of Death, ... 49 

VIII. Love Stronger than Pride, ... 53 

IX. Marriage Vows, - - - - 61 

X. New Hopes, ..... 33 

XI. Dorance, - - - - - 74 

XII. At Elmwood Grange, - - - - 81 

XIII. Jealousy, ..... 89 

XIV. School Days, ..... 95 

XV. Bess, ------ 104 

XVI. The Mystery Clears, - - - - HO 

XVH. The Temptation, .... 123 

XVUI. On the Lake, - - - . . 132 

XIX. Baffled Again, ..... 133 

XX. Retribution, ..... 145 

XXL Maud and Elda, - - - - 157 

XXII. A Domestic Spirit, - - - - 102 

XXIII. Father and Son, .... 175 

XXIV. The Mystery Fully Revealed, - - 184 

XXV. The Sinking Ship, - - - - 197 

XXVI. New Acquaintances, . - . . 204 

XXVII. Orange Blossoms, .... 207 

XXVIII. A Chapter of Sundries, - - - 316 




PREFACE. 


In giving this little volume to the public, I beg 
leave to say I have not drawn entirely on rny imag- 
ination, but have woven out of various reminiscences 
of plantation life the plot for my story of “ Dorance.” 

Of Virginian blood, but of Northern birth, my 
earliest sympathies were aroused in behalf of the 
people of both races of the ‘‘Sunny Southland,” and 
my imagination was made alive by the glowing pict- 
ures of Southern life, gleaned from my friends and 
from books on the subject. If I have succeeded in 
interesting my young friends in this phase of life, 
which has now passed into history, the problem of 
which is still unsolved in a measure, I will have fully 
accomplished my purpose in writing this book. 


The Author. 



DOR ANCE 


CHAPTER I. 

THE FUGITIVES. 

^ Our story opens many years back, while slavery 
still hung as a dark pall over this fair nation of ours, 
and before the wailing cry of anguish, wrung from 
thousands of human hearts — the cry of our country’s 
bondchildren — ^had reached the ears of the North. 
Long years ere the call to arms had summoned from 
their homes the truest, the bravest, the best of our 
country’s men ; while yet none but an All-wise God 
knew of the tidal wave of blood and woe that was to 
sweep our land, carrying with it thousands upon 
thousands of human lives, sacrificed upon their 
country’s altar for their nation’s honor ; while yet 
none but God knew of the wild, almost hopeless 
prayer daily ascending from the hearts of his long- 
suffering children — the prayer for liberty, for free- 
dom to live and love, as mankind should ; for release 
from the galling chains of slavery ; release from a 
system of treatment that was crushing the life, aye^ 
that which to man is more than life — the human 
affections, all, everything that distinguishes man from 
the brute creation. Do we wonder now that the cry 


10 


Dovanee. 


was lieard ? Can we still regret the sacrifice though 
our hearts yet bleed ? Ah, no ! The act which has 
raised so large a portion of the human family to man’s 
best estate, free to go forward in the sacred duties of 
freemen, to think, to act, to feel, all of which the 
human heart is capable, was not too much. The 
noble lives were nobly given. They have been accept- 
ed, and the further issue is in the hand of the same 
God who directed it all. 

And now, toward the close of a warm sultry day 
in the early autumn months, we introduce our first 
character to the reader. 

Walking along a narrow, rugged foot-path at the 
base of the Cumberland mountains, is a woman some- 
what past the prime of life. Slowly she moves as 
though each effort was painful to her. She is dressed 
in the short, coarse, homespun garment peculiar to 
the inferior race of people in the South. A closer view 
discloses a face drawn with pain and intense mental 
suffering. There is an almost frenzied glare in the 
dart eyes, and at every few steps she glances behind 
her with a wild, hunted look, that bespeaks fear. 
The distant baying of a hound reaches her ear, and 
she stops to listen more closely, turning her ear in the 
direction of the sound, and holding her breath in an 
agony of terror. Was it coming nearer to her? Ah, 
God! was it? But the sound ceases altogether after 
a little while, and with a long sigh of relief she walks 
on hugging the child in her arms 3^et closer to her 
bosom, and talking softly to it. It is a pretty babe, 
of perhaps two years, with soft, clear, white skin, and 
large, dark eyes, — eyes full of that strange, magnetic 
power sometimes seen, even in very young children, 


The Fugitives* 


11 


and whicli seem to draw out our sympathies,- and 
compel a close study of the mystic workings of the 
soul mirrored in their depths. 

Presently the woman turns from the path, into the 
depth of the forest and pursues her way for a short 
distance farther, until, as though tired nature could 
endure no more, she drops on the ground, under a 
clump of wild plum trees, and, gathering a handful 
of the ripe fruit, gives them to the child who devours 
them greedily. From her dress she takes a piece of 
bread, and a bottle of wine, of superior quality, and 
saturating the bread with this she feeds the hungry 
babe. As she watches it, tears steal from her eyes 
and course down her wasted cheeks. When the little 
one’s hunger begins to abate she puts the bread and 
wine back into her pocket and again tries to still its 
fretful crjung. 

‘‘ My pore chile ! my pore baby ! ” she exclaims, 
‘‘ ye must suffer too, fo’ yer father’s sin. My pore 
little baby ! I will lub ye a little fo’ yer angel mother’s 
sake. Oh Lord ! Avhy must de innercent suffer fo’ 
de sins ob de guilty ? Oh, I prays de good Lord to 
curse ye, Wilbur Alton ! may God nebber forgib’ ye 
yer sin, as I nebber forgit it ! My chile, my beautiful 
Elsie ! How proud I was ob ye, but yer marster, an’ 
mine wif a debbil’s soul in his han’some body, must 
tear ye away from me an’ sell ye like a brute ! He 
was too proud to lub ye like a man kase yer mother 
had the cursed blood ob de slave in her veins. Yer 
was beautiful ’nough an’ gentle as enny high-born 
lady, but yer wer’ jest a slave like yer ole mammy. 
Oh, my Elsie, my Elsie, T pray de good Lord to take ye 
outen de worl’ before yer as wicked an’ hard hearted 


12 


Dorance, 


as yer pore ole mother. I’ll make him suffer as I 
do. His proud heart shall break fo’ his chile too ! 
He shall repent in de berry dust an’ ashes for all de 
pleasure he’s won at de expense o’ a mother’s broken 
heart.” 

With choking sobs she rocked herself to and fro 
and the babe was quieted by the wild grief of the 
woman. Many times during the past two weeks had 
its innocent eyes witnessed her despair, and though 
its little brain could comprehend nothing more than 
that she was suffering there seemed to be a strange 
sympathy in its young heart, for her. Ah, how soon 
the human heart learns to distinguish the different 
effects of joy and sorrow ! 

Poor babe ! could it have known all that the future 
held in store for it, it would have recoiled from 
life as from a fiery furnace. How wisely the future has 
been veiled from our eyes, and how few of us would 
have the courage to go forward in the discharge of life’s 
dqties if we could but see them, through the long 
months and years of futurity ! Presently the woman 
notices the child’s closing eyes, and deep, quiet 
breathing. Sleep is taking the little one in her 
kindly arms. Gently the woman lays herself down, 
with the child’s head pillowed on her breast, and a 
half-hour later finds them both fast asleep ; the 
babe’s the innocent slumber of childhood, while that 
of the woman is nature’s blessed relief from painful 
thought and action. The sun sinks low in the west, 
throwing weird shadows across them, and a playful 
squirrel whisks past, and scampers up to the branches 
of the tree above their heads, whence it gazes down 
upon their upturned faces. 


A Refuge. 


13 


CHAPTER 11. 

A KEFUGE. 

I SAY, Jim, don’t yer hurry so, kase it am so nice 
an’ cool in dis liyar woods, arter bein’ in de hot fiel’ 
all day long. I tell yer, it makes dis brack hide ob 
mine feel good.” 

Go ’long now ; yo’s de lazies’ niggah I ebber seed. 
If I ’s to tell Mars’ how yo’ shirks all de hardes’ part 
ob de work, de oberseer’s whip ’d warm yer back 
more ’n de sun do dis day.” 

Thar now, don’t yer talk so big, kase Bess am 
lis’nen agin’ an’ — Why, de Lawd sabe us ! Hyar 
am a woman an’ chile sound asleep, an’ she not ob 
our gang’ nuther ! Some pore run’ way, I spec’s. 
Hyar, Bess, yer’s might’ fond ob chillen, an hyar’s a 
sweet one fo’ yer.” 

The woman addressed as ‘‘ Bess ” stood as though 
transfixed to the spot for some moments, a look of 
recognition flashing over and lighting up her face, as 
she gazed at the unconscious sleepers. Then she 
sprang forward and snatched the baby to her breast, 
thus waking the woman, who started up with a wild 
cry, and would have fled but for the detaining hand 
of one of the slaves, who caught her arm and held 
her fast. 

The poor creature gazed round on the group of 
black faces, until her eyes fell on Bess with the child 
in her arms. She sprung to her side, and tearing the 


14 


Dorance, 


child from her, fell on her knees and burst into a 
passion of tears and entreaty. Bess knelt beside her 
and clasping her arms about the swaying figure 
called her by the name of “ Aunt Ohio’.” The sobs 
ceased, and the quivering lips at length framed the 
words, ‘‘ Who are yo’ ? ” 

“ I am Bess, yer Bess ! Don’t yer know me. Aunt 
Chlo’?” 

As Bess mentioned her name, the woman again 
tried to flee from them, but again Sam held her back. 
She flung herself on the ground and raising both 
hands high above her head, and with the child cling- 
ing to her neck, she prayed wildly, 

“ Oh, Lord, dear Lord ! I’s sore pressed ! Oh save 
me ! I’s drownin’ in a deep sea o’ trouble an’ none 
kin help me but jes’ you.” 

Tears rained over the faces of the group of black 
men and women at the despairing words and man- 
ner, and Bess again knelt by her and said: ‘‘Aunt 
Ohio’, yer’s safe. Do yer hear ? yer’s safe. Mas’r’ 11 
keep yer, an’ yer kin lib wif me. Don’t yer be no 
ways ’fraid now. We’s got a good, kind mas’r, we 
has. If yer ’ll stay wif us he’ll keep yer. Yer ’ll 
stay, won’t yer. Aunt Ohio’ ? ” 

The others were astonished to see Bess show any 
sign of emotion or tenderness, as she had always been 
regarded as vicious and hard-hearted. During the 
three years she had been one of their number, she 
had never manifested the least sign of tenderness for 
any of them except little children. sorrows or 

sufferings seemed not to touch her stolid feeling, but 
a little child in pain, or a wounded animal, would 
melt her stony reserve and make her almost wild 


A lief age. 


lo 


with grief and sympathy. They considered her 
crazy, and certainly there was a wild distraught ex- 
pression about her. Her long, black hair hung in 
tangled masses over her shoulders, and her large eyes 
rolled fiercely when anything occurred to arouse her 
temper. Her skin was of the peculiar ashen white 
color that is seen only in the mixed races of the 
South, and her bloodless lips were tight-drawn al- 
ways, unless she was soothing some hurt animal or 
grieved child, when they would quiver pitifully. 
She had never told anything of her past history since 
her coming among them three years before, but they 
talked in hushed whispers among themselves of tlie 
awful trouble that had “ turned her head,” as they 
termed it. As Bess uttered the words ‘‘ yerTl lib wif 
me,” she raised to her feet, and dragging the woman, 
whom we shall henceforth know as ‘‘ Aunt Ohio’,” to 
an upright position, raised the child in her own 
arms, and led the way along the wood path, the 
others following, until they emerged from the woods 
into a field, at the farther side of which stood the 
cabins of the field-laborers. Bess’s cabin stood at the 
end of the row of comfortable, whitewashed huts, and 
as the other slaves were all afraid of her she lived 
alone. As Bess’s cabin was facsimile of the others 
on this plantation, we will describe it to the reader. 
A room, twelve feet square, with two windows, one in 
either end, and doors opposite each other in the sides 
of the house. A bedstead stood in one corner, fur- 
nished with a husk mattress, and pillows filled with 
“ hen-feathers,” — if the housewife was economical 
enough to save them for herself — otherwise these 
also were of straw or corn husks. Bess had carefully 


16 


Dorance. 


saved enough to fill two good-sized pillows, and over 
these were drawn coarse muslin slips, as white as the 
driven snow. A patch-work quilt, of the pattern 
know as ‘‘ double X ” set together with bright pink 
calico covered the bed, and curtains of coarse muslin 
hung over the little six-paned windows, these rivalling 
the pillow cases for whiteness. 

In the opposite corner stood a table, made by nail- 
ing a wide board on four legs. Above the table was 
a shelf, on which the few pieces of tinware and 
yellow earthenware dishes for the small household 
were arranged. The tinware was scoured as bright 
as soap and sand would make it, and the floor and 
table and three wooden chairs were as white as maple 
wood, from the frequent applications of the same. 
The stone hearth before the wide-mouthed chimney 
was swept, and the coals were buried in the ashes, to 
keep alive until needed for cooking. A half-dozen 
wooden pegs driven into the white-washed logs com- 
pleted the furnishing of the little cabin which was 
Bess’s home. All the others were as like as two peas, 
except in point of size and cleanliness. 

The spotless purity of Bess’s home was a little 
above the common order of humble homes on the 
plantation, and the comfort belonging to them all 
was very far beyond the average of plantation cabins 
through the South. 

The casual observer might easily read the charac- 
ter of the master by the homes of the slaves. We 
will make the reader acquainted with the master of 
this plantation further on. 

Bess pushed open the door of her humble home, 
and without a word of dissent Aunt Ohio’ stepped 


A Refuge. 


17 


over the threshold and dropped wearily on the nearest 
chair. Bess closed the door firmly, then kneeling 
down at the woman’s knees, said, in a choking voice, 
‘‘ Dear Aunt Ohio’, I’s so glad yer’s come. 1 ’most 
tho’t I’d die sometimes, thinkin’ ob de times when 
you an’ me an’ Elsie libbed togedder. Oh, it am so 
hard to lib an’ not one soul in all de woii’ to lub you. 
Dey say I’s crazy kase I don’t larf an’ dance an’ sing 
like dey do. ’Spects I am crazy when I t’inks ob 
my George an’ de baby what cried so sorry like when 
I drapped it into de ribber. Mars’ Harter was gwine 
to sell it away from me, kase he said I couldn’t work 
with it, an’ I couldn’t b’ar dat nohow. So I lef’ it 
slip outen my arms into de water. I kin hear it cry 
now, jes’ as plain as I hearn it den.” 

Poor Bess put her hands over her ears to shut out 
the sound of her child’s last pitiful wail, and drew 
a quick, hard breath ere she continued : 

“ I would ’a jumped in, too, but Mars’ Arnold 
kotched my dress an’ hel’ me. Den I tol’ him all 
’bout Mars’ Harter whippin’ my George ’till he mos’ 
died, kase he wouldn’t leab’ me an’ de baby when 
dey sol’ him, an’ ’bout my baby, an’ Mars’ Arnold 
talked so kin’ ’bout Heaben, whar the pore baby war 
gone, an’ den he bought me an’ fetched me home 
wif him. He’s a good mars’, an’ he’ll let yer stay, 
kase he done kep’ a boy long las’ summer, as had bin 
whipt mos’ to pieces. I’s so glad yer’s come hyar, 
an’ de baby, too, pore dear ! Whose baby am it. 
Aunt Ohio’ ? ” 

‘‘ It am mine^ mine ! Don’t yer see it am mine ? 
Oh, Bess, what yer say dat for when yer sees it am 
mine ! ” 


2 


18 


Borance. 


A wild look of terror came into Aunt Ohio’s eyes 
as she spoke, and she half started up from her chair 
and glanced toward the door as though she would 
again flee. 

“ Nebber min’ me, Aunt Ohio’* I won’t say any- 
thing ’bout de baby, if yer don’t want ter talk ’bout 
it. But it do look so much like Mars’ Alton an’ de 
Missus, too.” 

‘‘Hush, Bess! I’ll tell yer sometime all ’bout it, 
but yer mustn’t ax me now. Oh, I ’s so hungry I ” 

“ Wal now, I ’clar’ fo’ it, I ’s an’ old goose, I jes’ is, 
gabblin’ away like dis yer, when yer’s bof done 
starbed I Hyar are some pone an’ ’taters an’ a bite 
o’ meat, an’ I’ll hab yer a cup o’ sage-tea in jes’ no 
time at all.” 

Bess put the cold victuals on the table and raked 
out the coals, placing the bits of wood and hangiog 
the little iron kettle in almost no time at all, as she 
had said. 

Aunt Ohio’ ate ravenously, while Bess fed the 
child and rocked it to sleep in her arms as she 
watched the hungry woman eat piece after piece of 
the pone and drink the warm, grateful tea. She 
read by these mute signs a part of the suffering 
that she had undergone. 

Only a part, however. She looked down at the 
little face pillowed on her bosom, and its thin features 
and extreme pallor spoke of the share it had had in 
the woman’s privations and exposures. Even poor 
Bess who had suffered so much — ^had indeed been 
crazed by her bitter trouble — could not read all that 
Aunt Ohio’, had endured. Here was a mystery, a 


A liefiuje. 


19 


dark, fearful mystery, with how much of crime and 
sin involved in it, yet remains to be proven. 

After many assurances from Aunt Ohio’ that she 
would not leave her, Bess left the cabin, and went to 
the master’s house, as the family mansion was termed 
by the slaves, for some milk for the child and to 
replenish her little larder after the heavy drain on 
it. She had faithfully promised not to* reveal tlie 
identity of the fugitive woman to her master, but 
only to beg for protection for her. As she sped home 
through the fast-gathering darkness, a pitcher of 
milk in one hand and a basket of broken victuals in 
the other, her heart felt lighter than for many days 
or months before. For, had she not the promise of 
the master that Aunt Chlo’ should stay if she chose, 
and share her home with her ; she, whose joyless life 
liad caught a gleam of happiness from Aunt Ohio’s 
coming? Poor Bess! poor Aunt Ohio’ 1 There are 
not many gleams of sunshine in the lives of those 
who are under the yoke of slavery. 



20 


Dormice. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE SLAVE QUESTION. 

Elmwood Grange, the old ancestral home of the 
Arnolds, stood on a slight eminence in the midst of 
a rolling tract of country, and was surrounded on 
every side by grand old forest trees and flowering 
shrubs. The elms — the number and beauty of which 
gave the place its name — together with the birch, 
catalpa, and magnolia, and here and there a clump 
of dark evergreens, or mountain ash, with their 
feathery ferndike leaves, or scarlet berries, formed a 
picturesque background for the nearer view of the old 
brown-stone mansion, portions of which had been 
built in the great-grandfather’s time. 

Each succeeding son had added the more modern 
improvements of his own day, until now the old hall 
presented the very pleasing effect of antique and 
modern architecture combined. It was a heritage 
of which any heir might be proud. The large plan- 
tation kept under cultivation by the sound judgment 
of the master, and the willing labor of a large num- 
ber of slaves well kept and kindly treated, the 
grand old house and tastefully laid out grounds ; the 
large library of old time and modern literature (for 
the Arnolds were great readers) ; the long upper gal- 
lery, hung with the portraits of each succeeding gen- 
eration, from the white-haired old man in knee- 


The Slave Questioyi, 


21 


breecheKS and silver buckles, down to the present 
owner in the dress-suit of a gentleman of culture of 
the time of which we write, was surely a heritage of 
which they might well be proud. And the Arnolds 
were a proud race, justly proud of the name which 
had been kept unsullied by any dishonorable act for 
so many generations. 

The old aristocratic name of the Arnolds was known 
to Southern chivalry as among their bravest, most 
patriotic men, and the idea that the traitor Arnold 
could have been connected with their line of ancestry 
was considered as an impossibility. 

And now we will take a peep at the immates of the 
house. 

It is the morning after the event narrated in our 
last chapter. The family are at breakfast. The 
master, Chester Arnold, is a tall, well-made man, rather 
powerfully built, with dark hair combed smoothly 
over a massive forehead, deep-gray eyes in which 
lurk a thoughtful expression, a finely-cut mouth, with 
sensitive lines about the lips, a chin covered with a 
long, dark beard, and a kindly, good-natured expres- 
sion about the aristocratic face bespeaks a man of 
generous heart and sympathetic nature — a man easily 
led by his feelings, too sensitive perhaps for a man in 
his position, some would say. His wife, a delicate 
woman, with fair hair and a face deathly pale, except 
for the hectic bloom on her cheeks, is sitting in an easy- 
chair, propped up with pillows, her elbow resting on 
the table, and supporting her head with one hand, 
while the other toys with her spoon. A fragile- 
looking little woman who greatly needs the thought- 
ful, tender care her husband bestows upon her. There 


22 


Dorance.. 


is one other member of this small family, just now 
lying in its father’s arms, a baby boy of four months. 
Chester Arnold loves his child, his only one, with a 
love amounting almost to idolatry. His young wife 
and babe are the dearest objects in life to him. 

He always insists on having the child brought to 
him after the morning meal is over. It is the only 
time during the day that tliey can be together as a 
family. Only too well does the husband know that 
soon this will cease also, that liis gentle wife is leav- 
ing his home for that better world where sickness and 
pain never come. 

There is a look of sadness on his countenance as 
the dry hacking cough sounds on his ear. He presses 
his child closer to his breast and gazes in its inno- 
cent face with a look of mingled pain and pleasuie. 
When the paroxysm has ceased he says, “ Muriel, I 
want your advice on a matter pertaining to a poor 
runaway slave and her child, whom the field hands 
found in the woods yesterday and brought in to the 
cabins last night. Bess came to me after dark and 
begged me to let her stay on the plantation and share 
her cabin. You know Bess lives alone, as the others 
are all afraid of her. Poor girl, she has had enough 
trouble to turn a stronger brain than hers. I went 
down to the negro quarters this morning but the 
woman refused to tell anything but that she had a 
cruel master. The strangest part of it all is that she 
and Bess are known to each other, and I can get 
nothing out of that, but that they lived on the same 
plantation for several years. The child is what trou- 
bles me more than I can account for. It looks as 


The Slave Qiicistluit, 23 

much like a white child as my own little Albert here. 
I suspect it is of its own master’s blood. Muriel, there 
are devil’s hearts in some of our slave-holders.” 

“ Chester ! ” replied his wife in an entreating tone. 
“ you will keep the poor woman here, won’t you ? I 
shudder to think of what she may have suffered. Oli, 
how I wish this terrible thing could be stopped. It 
seems to me God will not suffer men to commit such 
sin much longer. Suppose, Chester, it were your 
own wife and child driven to sucli a fate, wandering 
about the country, hunted down like a dog, starved, 
beaten, forced to a cruel master’s will. Only think of 
it for a moment, and you, too, will have some sympa- 
thy for this poor woman. She is human like our- 
selves, with just as much of affection for her own 
flesh and blood.” 

“ Dry your tears, my love. I did not intend to ex- 
cite your tender feelings so strongly. The woman 
shall stay if you wish it, although I am running some 
risk in keeping her. You know our slave laws are 
pretty binding on this point. But don’t fret, my dear 
wife, over what is beyond our control. Neither you 
nor I can change this slave system in the least.” 

Chester Arnold raised the frail form of his wife in 
his strong arms and carried her into the parlor, and 
placed her in an easy position near the window where 
she could see the nurse walking back and forth on 
the gravel drive, with their laughing, crowing babe 
in her arms. The sight of her own happy child 
brought back afresh the thought of the poor runaway 
slave and baby. She waited until her husband had 
gone to oversee some work on the plantation, then 
sent word for the woman and child to come to her 


24 


Dorance. 


When they made their appearance, a half hour later, 
it would have been hard to recognize the fugitive 
in this neat, sad-eyed woman, with her hair combed 
smoothly back, and her dress clean and mended. 
The child, too, Avas much prettier than it had ap- 
peared the preceding da}". Muriel Arnold tried 
to draw the woman out to speak of her troubles, 
but got only evasive replies and a passionate 
burst of tears. Her kindly heart warmed at once to- 
ward the babe, and truly, it was a beautiful child. As 
her husband had said, it looked as much like a white 
child of pure blood as their own little one. What 
is the sorrowful history connected with Aunt Ohio' 
and her baby ? ” was the thought in Muriel Arnold’s 
mind for days afterward, whenever she saw them. 
She made Aunt Ohio’ one of her house servants, and 
the more she studied her the deeper grew her interest 
in her, until her own failing health drove all other 
thoughts from her mind. 

Muriel Arnold was never to know the secret of 
Aunt Ohio’s life. The tangled skein was for others’ 
unravelling. 


A Prayer For Death 


25 


CHAPTER IV. 

t A PRAYER FOR DEATH. 

O Lord, let me die ! Let me die ! Take me out 
of this world where there is nothing but trouble and 
pain for a poor slave. Oh, mother, pray for your 
Elsie to die ! ” 

The wail came from the lips of a young girl, lying 
on a rude bed of cotton bales, in a low, olosc shed on 
a plantation in southern Georgia. Fever was burn- 
ing up the very vitals of the poor sufferer. For two 
weeks she had tossed on that rude bed and had al- 
most stepped over the border of lite, but now she 
began to fear she would live. Oh, how welcome 
death would have been to the suffering girl ! A moan 
from the parched lips brought to her side an old 
negress from behind the stack of bales, who gave her 
a tin cup of cool water to drink. The girl drank 
eagerly, then fell back again, and asked : “ Do you 
think I’ll get well, Hannah ? ” 

‘‘ Laws sakes now, honey,” replied the old negress, 
‘‘ I’s shuah I hopes so. I mos’ spects you’ll be well 
in a day or so, now. You don’t hab de chills ebery 
day now, you know.” 

How long has it been since I was taken sick ? ” 
again asked the girl. 

Don’ know deary ; been a good spell now. Yo’ 
jes’ drapped down one day while yer’s workin’ totin’ 
de cotton in, I’s been right here wif ye eber so 


26 


Dorance. 


many days, aii^ I mos’ thought yer’s dyin' some* 
times.” 

Oh, I wish I had ! 1 want to die ! I’ve nothing 

to live for. Mother ! Mother ! I can’t live so far 
away from you and from the dear old home.” 

The girl turned her head away, and dry, hard sobs 
broke from the parched lips. The old woman wept, 
too, from sympathy, and her voice had a tender, piti- 
ful sound when it again fell on the sick girl’s ear. 

“ Now, honey, yer’s not t’ankful to de Lord fo’ let- 
tin’ yer lib. He’s got suthin' fo’ yer to do yit, yer 
may be shuah. De good Lord lubs yer, an’ ole 
Hanner lubs yer, kase she has got no one else to lub 
now, sence Mars’ done sol’ her las’ boy upnorf. Yo’s 
a might’ han'some gal, yer is. What fo’ yer Mars’ 
sell yer ’way down heah?” 

There was a ring of bitterness in the voice that re- 
plied, I am only a slave, you know, and my master 
could keep me or sell me when and where he pleased. 
Do you think we will be happy in heaven, Hannah, 
like the free-born ? Will God make us slaves there, 
too ? My mother said we would be free in Heaven, 
and just as happy as the white people. Can it be 
true? Do you think there is a God and a heaven?” 

Yes, deary. I knows dere is. I’s jes’ libbin’ in 
de bressed hope o’ gittin’ ter hebben some day ; den 
I knows I’ll be jes’ as happy as de grandes’ white 
folks. God’s nebber gwine to shet de door ob heb- 
ben tight ’gin us, arter puttin’ all de trouble on us 
pore slabes in dis worl’. Why, de good Lord made 
us wif brack skins, an’ I ’spects our souls are jes’ all 
white an’ clean alike, ’cordin’ as dey’s bin washed 
in de blood ob de Lamb,” 


27 


A Prayer For Death. 

‘‘ I don’t know. I’m sure I wish I did know* I 
hope God will be merciful to us" in some way.” 

The girl’s last words died away in a whisper, and 
she slept from sheer weariness. Her kind old nurse 
sat quietly by her side, a happy smile on her homely 
black face, as if she had caught a glimpse of the 
heaven of her hopes while she talked of it. She had 
gathered enough from the sick girl’s ravings during 
the delirium of fever to guess very near the truth, and 
a hard, bitter truth it was to the poor girl who had suf- 
fered it all. Young, and of a sensitive nature, inno- 
cent of any sin, except the sin of being born in slavery, 
she had been made the victim of a most cruel fate. 
The blood in her veins was so slightly tainted by that 
of her African ancestor that hardly a trace of it could 
be seen in the beautiful face. From earliest infancy 
she had been petted and made much of by her mas- 
ter’s family, picking up their manners and modes of 
conversation, developing a high order of intelligence 
and a delicacy of feeling that made her seem almost 
one of them. Her mistress, seeing this, had at 
length taken the pains to teach her to read and 
write. Her aptitude for books made this more a 
pleasure than a task. Then, her mistress’ delicate 
health had demanded the girl’s time and attention, 
and for three years she had been almost the sole com- 
panion of the woman whose kindness of heart had 
done so much to lift her, the poor slave, to a position 
so far above the common level of slaves. Finally, 
the mistress had died, leaving her infant son to the 
care of her faithful servant and companion. Her 
master now turned to her for comfort and sympathy 
in his dark hour of trial, and to him, as to his wife, 


28 


Dorance, 


she became almost an equal, growing into his affec- 
tion, sharing all his plans for the future, until, be- 
coming alarmed at his own weakness, he had sent 
her away from him out of harm’s way. The poor 
girl’s knowledge of this fact had saved him from the 
bitter curses that might otherwise have fallen from 
her lips. She had understood him, when, in answer 
to her pleading, he said he was too weak to keep her 
near him for fear of dishonoring her and his own 
proud name. Honorable masters the Altons had 
ever been to those beneath their charge. The poor 
girl respected him for his integrity of character, and 
so she had gone from the old plantation and all she 
loved in life. She was but a slave, he her master; 
and while the power was his to do as he willed with 
his own, yet the noble spirit of the man saved him 
from any debasing act toward his helpless slave. She 
was his, to keep or to sell, as any other article of 
merchandise, according to the laws of the land, but 
hot his to defile, as plainly set forth in the law of 
God. Fickle fortune had played with her, as a child 
plays with a new toy, and she had passed from one 
hand to another, until finally she became the property 
of the human devil who now owned her. Gold was 
the god he worshipped, and the slaves on his planta- 
tion were worked without mercy to fill his coffers. 
What mattered the throbbing brain and aching 
muscles to him ! Gold, gold^ gold ! he must have 
at any sacrifice of human life or human suffering. 
Every particle of the man’s better nature was swal- 
lowed up in his insatiable greed for gold. The poor 
girl had gone forth to her liard toil with the other 
slaves, . thanking God that this, was so, She could 


29 


A Prayer For Death 

toil until death might release her, for the wealth he 
craved, but her sensitive soul shrunk from any other 
contact with him. Thus toiling and thinking, think- 
ing and toiling, until her brain seemed on fire, ex- 
hausted nature had at last yielded to the malarial 
fever that everywhere lurked in the low, marshy 
grounds. Old Hannah had been appointed as nurse, 
because her infirmities prevented her keeping up 
with the other hands, and the master did not care to 
lose his beautiful young slave, although she must 
work to the utmost of her powers. Experience had 
long ago taught him that Old Hannah’s genius for 
nursing and doctoring the malaria-stricken slaves 
saved him more dollars than her work could earn him. 
She could work well and faithfully in this capacity, 
and whether by day, or through the long hours when 
the world is hushed to rest, did she watch over the 
girl with a tenderness born of the deep pity she felt 
for her hard lot as well as for the pride she took in 
her knowledge of caring for and healing the sick 
body. Old Hannah nursed the sorrow-laden hearts 
of her humble patients also, well knowing that the 
healthy mind, very often worked the cure instead of 
the ‘‘ yarbs an’ nussin’,” as she termed it. And in 
this case her cure was rewarded by seeing the 
strength come back to the weak limbs and new vigor 
to the life that had so nearly gone out forever. But 
the buoyant spirit of the girl was dead, and living 
was only a duty, stern and hard of accomplishment. 
That life could ever again be anything but a dreary 
desert, void of any green oasis, or touch of beauty 
seemed utterly impossible. Thus thought the poor 
girlp as she again took up her burden of living, toil- 


30 


Dorance, 


ing, slaving, until she was again prostrated by sick- 
ness. Then she was allowed some lighter task, but 
her low, brooding spirits were a constant drain on 
her slender stock of strength, and life in the rice 
swamps, even under a humane master, is hard at its 
best, but on this plantation, life was a misery that 
could only be endured, because the love of life is 
strong in every breast, and because God has made 
the sin of self-destruction so heinous, that only the 
diseased brain ever contemplates it. 


Remorse, 


31 


CHAPTER V. 

EMORSE, 

The clock in the hall struck two.. All the house 
liacl been quiet for liours. Peace seemed to have 
spread her wings over that home of elegance and out- 
ward comfort, regardless of the canker-worm that 
was eating out the heart of the man who sat in his 
library, at that late hour, his head buried in his 
hands, his whole frame quivering with the anguish 
that was shaking his soul. Remoi^e, bitter remorse, 
was sapping the root of life. The strong, manly 
vigor was giving way to the inroad of disease, and 
tlie jetty hair showed many a thread of silver. Many 
nights during the past six months had he sat alone 
at that hour, enduring such anguish as only a nature 
like his could feel. Wilbur Alton was suffering for 
his sin, thoughtlessly coininitted, but bitterly atoned. 
Two years ago, he had thought life could hold no 
better happiness for him, yet now, the meanest slave 
under his charge was far happier than he, the proud 
aristocratic master. Then,, his young wife had made 
life a blessing to him ; his child, his only one, had 
filled his heart with all a father’s love and pride. 
Now,, that grave out under the stars held his chief 
joy, his darling wife. And his child, —oh, would to 
heaven, he could find his lost boy! 

“ Oh, Elsie, Elsie, your mother’s curses have indeed 


Dorance. 


fallen heavily on my head. She has made me feel 
the anguish of a childless heart. I must, I will find 
tliem, — my little son, and you, too, poor Elsie. Oh 
God, give me them back and I will give you all else ! ” 
cried the man kneeling and pouring out his soul in a 
prayer for help to find his only son, who had been 
stolen from his arms, by the poor, crazed mother of 
the young girl whom he had so cruelly parted from 
all she held dear in life. 

How often he had lived, over and over again that 
dreadful hour when the mother had risen before him 
in all her anguish of soul and cursed him for desolat- 
ing her life, and sending her daughter into a hopeless 
bondage ; perhaps, into a lifelong prostitution. 

Wilbur Alton was proving the truth of the words, 
“ what we inflict, we feel.” He had not scrupled to 
break the mother’s heart, and in return, she had taken 
his only child and fled from the place. Every effort 
to find her had been unsuccessful, until finally the 
search was abandoned in despair. Sometimes the 
fear that she had destroyed herself and the babe, took 
possession of him ; then again, the hope that she yet 
lived and that he would find them and restore the 
daughter to her mother and his son to his home and 
inheritance, would buoy him up, and lead him to re- 
newed efforts to find them. For long hours he paced 
the room with heavy tread and pale, set features, then 
throwing himself on a lounge he sank into a troubled 
sleep. The sun was shining brightly when tlie 
clanging of the great bell, summoning the field hands 
to their day’s labor, woke him from his uneasy slumber. 
Haggard and old, he looked, as he appeared at the 
breakfast-table, more like a man of fifty, than thirty- 


Itemorse, 


five years of age. He rose from his Untasted meal, 
and taking his hat left the house. Following a 
winding path through the grounds, he came to the 
burial place of his family. For nearly a century the 
storms had beat down on some of the graves in that 
inclosure. It was a beautiful place, surrounded by 
a light iron fence, and shaded by many trees. The 
monuments of gray and white marble, shone daz- 
zling, in the rays of the morning sun, and the bright- 
hued flowers held up their heads to the light which 
was their life-giver. Wilbur Alton opened a small 
gate, and entering, passed between the graves, until 
he came to a small white monument of beautiful 
workmanship on which he read the name : 

“ Agnes, 

Wife of Wilbur Alton. 

Died June 21st, 18 — 

Aged 20 yrs. 4 mon. and 2 days.” 

Slowly he read the name and date, then leaning his 
head on the stone murmured in low, broken tones, 
Agnes, my darling, I swear that I’ll find poor Elsie 
if she still lives, and atone to her, as far as I can, for 
the sin I did both her and her mother, and to free 
them both from the shackles of slavery. And, oh, 
God grant I may find our boy and restore him to my 
empty home and heart ! I would meet you with no 
stain on my soul. If I can accomplish this, I feel I 
shall once more be at peace with God, my conscience 
at peace with all the world.’’ He stooped down and 
kissed the name, then hastily left the place, and went 
back to the house, where he made preparations for an 


34 


Dorance. 


immediate journey. Two hours later lie was on his 
way to Nashville, where he took passage on the first 
boat down tlie river. He was on his Avay to find 
Elsie, the poor girl who had trusted to his honor only 
to find herself deceived in the master she thought 
could do no wrong. Toward dawn of the second day 
the boat stopped at a small landing, to leave some 
freight and take on wood. Mr. Alton inquired the 
name of the place, picked up his travelling bag and 
stepped ashore. It was but a small village, and he had 
no difficulty in finding the boarding-house, which was 
but a miserable affair of its kind. As he was the only 
occupant, at that early hour, of the little sitting-room, 
lie appropriated the lounge, and stretching himself full 
length, with his travelling bag for a pillow and his 
cloak for a covering, endeavored to sleep for an hour 
or so. But, alas ! sleep seldom visits a mind so full of 
painful thought as was Wilbur Alton’s. He lay quiet 
until the household was astir, and the landlady sup- 
posed him asleep until he called to her and asked 
whether it would be possible to procure a carriage 
and horses in the place. She replied that it was very 
doubtful, but would send her son to inquire for him. 
The lad was gone nearl}" an hour, during which time 
the impatient traveller had procured a miserable 
breakfast of muddy coffee, corn bread and hard 
boiled eggs. He walked up the one street of the little 
village, to while away the time until he should know 
whether he could get a conveyance. When the lad 
returned he said that he had managed for an enor- 
mous sum to get a heavy two-horse carriage for 
any length of time desired. I will take it, sir. Let 
it be got ready at once,” replied Mr. Alton. And so 


• B-einorse, 


35 


a half-hour later he was driving rapidly toward the 
plantation of a Mr. Burdell, to whom he had sold a 
number of slaves six months before, among them the 
young girl whom we have known by the name of 
Elsie. It was late in the afternoon when he reached 
his destination, only to learn from the overseer that 
Mr. Burdell had gone south with a gang of slaves 
and that there was no such girl on the plantation as 
Elsie, nor one answering to her description, neither 
had there been during the last year. 

Mr. Alton turned away, with a heart full of bitter 
pain. Were his efforts to find Elsie to be baffled as his 
every endeavor to find her broken-hearted mother and 
his little son had been ? Oh, how well the revenge had 
been planned, and how bitterly the curse had fallen 
on him, who had not hesitated to break a mother’s 
heart by selling away from her, her only remaining 
child ! ‘‘ Yet she was only a slave,” he would argue. 

But conscience told him, that her affection for her 
child had been just as strong as his for his only son. 

The overseer had told him that Mr. Burdell was 
gone to New Orleans, so directing his course to the 
little village, he dismissed the carriage, and procuring 
a ticket, took the first train south. A sickening fear 
came over him, as he neared the southern metropolis, 
that she might be dead, or that he might fail of find- 
ing her. A fervent prayer for divine aid and guid- 
ance welled up from his heart, and he vowed that 
could he but find her she should forget all the sorrow 
of the past six months. He had told the poor slave- 
mother that she would soon forget the parting from 
her child, that the bitterness of it would soon be past. 
He had not believed the feelings of this people for 


36 


Dorance. . 


their offspring could be the same as that of his own 
race. A mother forget her child ! What mocliery the 
words seemed now ! Could he forget his little son? 

Now, after six months of agony and suspense, with 
no clue as to their whereabouts, not a trace of their 
hiding-place, if indeed they yet lived, when hope had 
almost died out, that they would ever be found, it 
seemed doubly bitter to be baffled in his efforts to 
find the young girl whom he now felt he had deeply 
wronged. ‘‘But she was only a slave.^' whispered 
the vile tempter to his troubled conscieneeo But he 
could not be lulled back to rest again. He had suf- 
fered too deeply, “ Oh God, give me them back, 
and never again will I cause a soul under mf care to 
part from its own flesh and bloody for gold to enrich 
its master I Remove this curse from my life and I 
will ever respect the rights of the least of thy chil- 
dren ! ” 

When he reached New Orleans he went to a hotel, 
and sought a few hours needed rest before beginning 
his search for Mr. Burdell. After haunting all the 
slave-markets in the city for three days, he suddenly 
came upon Mr. Burdell on one of the narrow, filthy 
streets leading down to the river. His joy can hardly 
be imagined when, after so much delay, he found him- 
self in company with the man to whom he had sold 
Elsie, nearly six months before. Mr. Burdell ex- 
pressed some surprise at seeing him in the city, and 
asked immediately whether he had made good sales, 
supposing he had come to the city like himself, to 
buy and sell slaves, adding that he had done much 
better with his number than he had expected. 

“ I did not come hither with the intention of buy- 


Remonse. 


37 


ing or selling, Mr. Burdeil,” replied the wretched 
man, but to see you, sir/’ 

“ Ah, excuse my mistake. I naturally supposed 
that you came to dispose of some of your large num- 
ber of young slaves, knowing the prices here are so 
much better than in our more northern State. It is 
really remarkable what prices a hearty lot of young 
negroes will command at present. But there is a 
fine prospect of the cotton and rice crops this year, 
and young slaves especially are much in demand 
now. I know of no man in our State who keeps such 
a large number of slaves on the same sized plantation 
as yourself, Mr. Alton. Are you still averse to sell- 
ing them ? I remember you expressed some such 
idea when I was at your place last spring.” 

‘‘ Mr. Burdeil, I have been severely punished 
already for selling my slaves. God forbid I should 
ever again barter or sell my fellow-beings, even the 
lowest of the human family.” 

"‘How? What? I fail to understand you, siiV’ 
exclaimed Mr. Burdeil in great amazement. For, 
reader, such ideas were held as preposterous among 
the Southern gentry. Slaves were considered only 
as the property of their masters, just as horses or 
cattle, with no regard to the human affections, the 
God-implanted soui, hidden neath the rough exterior. 
Mr. Burdeil was therefore much surprised to hear 
his companion speak of his slaves, as his fellow-be- 
ings. But noticing his pale face and haggard counte- 
nance he believed him ill, suffering and partly deli- 
rious. Taking him gently by the arm, he asked, in 
an altered voice, concerning his health. Even after 
he had been told all the sad story, did Mr. Burdeil 


88 


Doranee. 


think the loss of his child had turned his brain. He 
pitied him most sincerely for his great grief, for he 
too, had a father’s strong love in his bosom. But 
still, he could not see that the poor slave mother had 
had just as much of love for her own child, and that 
it was frenzy that had driven her to the subsequent 
act of stealing away with her master’s only son for 
revenge. Wilbur Alton’s wife had been a woman of 
Northern birth and education, and had instilled some 
of her liberal opinions concerning slavery and the 
evils attending it into her husband’s mind ; therefore 
what he knew liad been the poor mother’s grief and 
frenzy at the loss of her cliild, was considered by his 
companion, and indeed by most Soutliern slave-holders, 
as the prompting of a low and vicious nature. 

“ I will lend you any aid in my power to find the 
girl,” said Mr. Burdell, she still lives, which I 
think highly improbable. We had gone but a few 
miles down the river when I had a splendid offer for 
her, from a lady from Mobile, who wanted her for a 
waiting-maid. I accepted it and the transfer was made. 
That evening the girl fell in a fit, and lay like one 
dead, for hours. When consciousness returned, she 
was too weak to walk or even raise her hands, and 
as the lady was in urgent haste to get home she 
could not delay, and she disposed of her to a man 
on the boat who was taking a lot of young slaves 
south to his cotton and rice plantation.” 

“ What was his name ? ” eagerly asked Wilbur 
Alton. 

‘‘I think it was Lynn, John Lynn. I was a wit- 
ness to the transfer and think he said his plantation 
was near Savannah. No doubt you will find the girl 


Remorse. 


39 


without much trouble if she lived to reach there. 
Lynn had to stop over at the next landing to make 
up his gang and thought she would recover suffi- 
ciently to go on, but I hardly think so She was a 
likely girl, on account of her great beauty. She 
might pass anj^ where for a white woman of culture.” 

Burdell little knew the pain he was inflicting by 
his careless words. Could it be possible she had 
died? Had he torn her from all she loved and sent 
her to her death ? Was his hand red with the blood of 
this innocent giii? were the torturing thoughts that 
came again and again to Wilbur Alton. 

After learning all ihe particulars that Mr. Burdell 
could give concerning Elsie, and the man who had 
last owned her, he shook hands with him, and thank- 
ing him for his sympathy, went back to his hotel. 
Ordering a hasty meal he paid his bill, and, late in 
the day as it was, procured a carriage to take him to 
Savannah. He felt he could not rest until he had 
made certain of poor Elsie’s fate. Wearied in body 
and brain he at length readied Savannah, and going 
to a quiet boarding place in a retired part of the city 
called for a room, and ordered a lunch brought to 
him at once. 

He ate but a few mouthfuls, and swallowing a cup 
of coffee, he laid himself down for a few hours of 
needful rest. 

He slept heavily from utter exhaustion, and the 
sun was shining brightly the next morning when he 
arose and prepared for a search through the country 
for John Lynn’s plantation. 

He made inquiry at the several shipping markets, 
but could learn nothing further than that such a per* 


40 


Dorance, 


son had shipped cotton to them from somewhere up 
the country. He determined he would drive until 
he found the man if he lived anywhere in that 
region. 

Late in the afternoon he stopped to inquire of a 
man who was overseeing some negroes at work, and 
obtained his first direct information concerning the 
object of his search. 

‘‘ John Lynn, did yer say, stranger ? War,yer jes* 
keeps right straight along ’til yer comes ter ther nex’ 
crossroads, then yer takes ther woods road ter ther 
left, an’ ther fust house on ther road is whar John 
Lynn lives. Yer can’t miss it. It’s jes’ back in ther 
field like.” 

“ Thank you”, said Wilbur Alton, as he gave the 
order to drive hastily on, then leaned back against the 
cushions, weak and pale from the intensity of his feel- 
ings. The horses seemed to creep along, so much faster 
did his thoughts travel than the already jaded steeds. 
It was nearly dark when the carriage reached the place 
which, as the overseer had said, was back from the 
road and almost surrounded by a dense woods, brok- 
en in places, by low pestilential swamps. A dismal 
looking place, surely, thought Wilbur Alton as he 
rode through the narrow lane and pulled up at the 
door. The house was a two-story log structure, set 
up on blocks, without shutters at the windows, or 
porches at the doors. Not a vine or shrub ornament- 
ed the bare grounds, which were innocent of any 
spear of grass. Chickens and geese, pigs and picka- 
ninnies, were cackling and grunting and shouting so 
that it was almost impossible to make himself heard 
by the half-dozen miserable wretches who came up to 


liemorse. 


41 


the carriage and to his question, answered “ Mars’ 
not in, sah. Be in ’fore long, dough.” He was shown 
into a room designated by the wench as de pa’lah,” 
and took a chair near the window to await the master’s 
return. 

‘‘ Heaven grant me this great wish of my heart. 
Let me but find her here alive O Lord, and eternity 
will be too short in which to thank Thee for Thy 
mercy toward me, the greatest of sinners.” 

Hearing a voice outside, calling to one of the 
slaves, he calmed himself by a mighty effort, ere the 
door opened and the man of the house stood before 
him. 


42 


Doranck^> 


CHAPTER VI, 

ELSIE. 

Wilbur Atlon rose to his feet, and gazed searching- 
ly at the man before him. The first glance told him 
he was a man who would hesitate at nothing to sat- 
isfy his greed for gain. A miser’s look glanced from 
his small steely-gray eyes, and showed about the thin 
bloodless lius and pinched nostrils. His chin was 
covered with a short, shaggy beard. His long un- 
kempt hair, and bushy brows, gave him more the ap- 
pearance of a savage animal, than of a human being, 
— a man to abuse every privilege of power and rule 
those under him by terror. He extended a coarse 
hand, which Wilbur Alton accepted in as cordial a 
manner as he could command, although his whole 
nature shrunk from the mean, avaricious soul of the 
man. It was his intention to deal with him in a cor- 
dial manner if possible. 

‘‘I believe I am speaking to Mr. Lynn, am I not?” 

“ Right, stranger, thet s my name.” 

“ And I am Wilbur Alton, sir. I came hither by 
Mr. Burdell’s direction. I think you have dealt 
some with him.” 

‘‘ Burdell, — Burdell, ’pears to me I’ve heerd that 
name somewhar, but whar the deuce it war I can’t 
tell now.” 

» It was on the boat, sir, about six months ago, 


EUie. 


43 


while you were bringing some slaves south, among 
them a young girl by the name of Elsie.” 

“ Oh yes — ^yes, I rec’lect now. He had been up 
north somewhar an’ got a lot of slaves fur his own 
plantation. They were fine hearty niggers too, all 
but this one gal. A woman on the boat had tuk a 
fancy to her an’ bought her fur a waitiii’-maid, but 
she tuk sick an’ they all thought she’d die, but I 
stood my chances on her an’ got her dirt cheap. 
I ’lowed she’d come to afore she got down hyar, but 
I tell yer she made a tight tussle of it. She war 
sick for a good spell afore she could go to work, and 
then when she’d done a week’s good work she jes’ fell 
down with another fit, an’ it ’bout ended her.” 

“ Is she living now ? ” asked Wilbur Alton, in a 
voice hoarse with emotion.” 

‘‘ Yes, she is, but thet’s ’bout all. She’s allers sick 
an’ mopish like. I’m goin’ to sell her for waitin’ 
maid, nex’ sale I make, ’fore she dies on my hands. 
I make a p’int of sellin’ my weakly niggers off when 
the cotton harvest is over.” 

Well, Mr. Lynn, I’m your man, then. I wish to 
buy her. She was raised on my plantation, and I 
have ever regretted selling her. She is only fit for a 
lady’s maid or light work. What is your price for 
her ? ” 

Lynn stared at the man before him in stupid sur- 
prise. What could a man want with a half dead 
slave ? and to his mind, Elsie had not life enough 
left to make her valuable in any sense of the word. 
How could his brutish nature understand Wilbur 
Alton’s morbidly sensitive one ? His sluggish soul 
had not been stirred by a sympathetic feeling in 


44 


Dorance. 


many years. Every creature on the place, from his 
wife to the meanest cur in the kennel, feared him. 
When finally he took in the idea, that the man was 
in earnest, a greedy twinkle came into his eyes, and 
he was the cunning man of business at once. 

‘‘Well, seein’ as she’s a good-lookin’ gal she ought 
to fetch a fust-rate price. May be she’s wuth more 
to you at private sale than she’d fetch at auction.” 

Lynn looked hard at his man to see how close a 
bargain he could drive with him. 

“Name your price, sir. I want the girl and am 
pressed for time, so let us finish our business at 
once.” 

The suspense was becoming intolerable to him. 
What was a few hundred dollars, more or less, com- 
pared with the awful agony he had endured and the 
humiliation to his proud spirit of dealing with such 
a coarse brutal nature? 

. “Then yer may have her for twelve hundred 
dollars. I ’low she’d fetch thet in market anyway.” 

“ Let us make out the papers at once, as I am in a 
hurry to get back to the city.” 

Lynn was more amazed than ever. “ Was the man 
crazy? Twelve hundred dollars for a sick, almost 
dead slave ! ” He had not expected to get half that 
sum at very close bargaining. He opened his eyes 
so wide, and showed his astonishment in every feat- 
ure, so plainly, that it was ludicrous in the extreme, 
but Wilbur Alton was too excited to notice, or 
feel any sense of humor for the brute, as he men- 
tally termed him. As Lynn had said, Elsie would 
hardly recover from one hard sickness, before she 
was taken with another. The harsh treatment and 


Elsie, 


45 


loathsome food of the slaves made her an easy prey 
to the fevers that prevailed among tlie rice swamps. 
She was just now recovering from a hard sickness, 
and Lynn had determined to sell her at some price. 
He bustled about the room getting pens, ink, and 
paper, and stood rubbing his hands together in silent 
exultation, while Wilbur Alton wrote out the receipt 
and passed it to him to sign. He signed his full 
name ‘ John Washington Lynn^ in a cramped hand, 
then counted over the bills before he pocketed them. 

Going to the door he shouted to one of the slaves, 
to send the “ gal ” Elsie to the parlor, then seated 
himself and took an enormous quid of tobacco. 

Mr. Lynn, I beg that you will leave me to meet 
this girl alone, as my presence may startle her. I 
will not trespass any longer than is absolutely 
necessary, I assure you.” 

“ Sartainly, sartainly, sir, an’ es to thet, yer ’d bet- 
ter hev ther bosses put up an’ stay till mornin’. May 
be yer’ll like to see some more of my young 
niggers.” 

‘‘ Thank you, no ; I will go to-night. I don’t intend 
making any further purchases. Be pleased to send 
the girl here at once.” 

The fifteen minutes seemed like hours, ere the 
door again opened and Elsie came, with weak tot- 
tering steps, into the room. She was noj prepared 
for what was coming. Evidently she thought Lynn 
was about to inflict some cruel punishment upon her, 
for she shrunk away from the light, and gazed about 
the room in a helpless manner. Wilbur Alton went 
to her and took the weak, trembling hands in his own 
strong clasp, before she recognized him, and with a 


Dorance. 


4G 

low cry of joy, she sank to the floor and clasped his 
knees. 

‘‘ My master, my dear, dear master, take me home, 
take me back to my poor mother ! Don’t leave me 
here to die ! ” 

Her sobs choked further utterance, but she clung 
to him convulsively. He raised her up and placed 
her in a chair, then, in a broken voice, told her he had 
come to take her home and give her her freedom. 

‘‘You shall be free from any master, my child; 
only tell me, you forgive me for all I have made you 
suffer.” 

But her eyes were closed, and joy had locked her 
senses in a sweet forgetfulness, ere she had heard all 
his sentence. Opening the door, he called for a 
shawl to wrap about her, and was leaving the house 
with her, when Lynn came against him in the hall. 

“ Hullo, what’s up now? ’Nother faintin’ fit, eh? ” 

' - “ Good night, Mr. Lynn, I am in a great hurry, as 
you see, to get back to the city.” 

“ H’m ! looks like it ! A safe journey ter yer, Mr. 
Alton.” 

Wilbur Alton placed the insensible girl in the car- 
riage, and, giving the order to drive as fast as possi- 
ble to the city, sprang in too, and began chafing her 
hands and temples. With a deep sigh she opened her 
eyes, and by the light of the carriage lamps, looked 
into the kindly face bent over her. 

It was several minutes ere she realized that it was 
her dearly loved master, and not a delusive dream. 
Who, that has not suffered in a like manner, can 
guess the joy that filled her soul when she knew she 
was going home ? How much of meaning there is in 


jtllsie. 


47 


that simple word, home^ to every heart 1 Home, is 
where the heart’s treasures are stored, whether many 
or few. There are but few of God’s children who 
have not some treasure, either in possession or mem- 
ory, located in some particular spot that endears it to 
them. We have a liking for the place that holds our 
affections and interests, no matter how humble the 
roof that shelters us. It is home just as truly to the 
ragged urchin who has taken possession of an empty 
box, and acquired the feeling of owning it and loving 
it, because it has befriended him in his hour of need, 
as to the rich man in his palatial mansion on the 
Avenue. 

To Elsie, it meant her mother’s affection and the 
pleasant associations that had always surrounded her 
until the dark hour when her troubles began. 

A deep feeling of thankfulness filled the heart of 
Wilbur Alton, as he watched the happy light on her 
countenance and he believed God had lent him the 
aid he so sorely needed, and that his success in find- 
ing Elsie was but an earnest of God’s compassion to- 
ward him ; that He would lend his help in the search 
for his child and the poor slave mother. Home was 
reached, after a delay of two weeks, on account of 
Elsie’s weakened condition, and then, for the first 
time, she learned the fact of her mother’s disappear- 
ance and abduction of her master’s little son. 

‘‘ Oh, master, she will come back. Mother was not 
wicked, she was wild with her trouble. She will 
bring little Dorance back to you, I know she will. Oh 
how you have suffered, my poor master I ” 

Her unselfish grief cut him to the heart, he, whose 
hand had dealt her such a cruel blow. Again the 


48 


Dorance. 


girl became his equal companion, the one comfort in 
all his sad life. Suffering had burned up the grosser 
passion of the man, and Elsie was to him like a dearly 
loved daughter. Her beauty touched his senses, 
her innocence and purity of soul, his nobler nature. 

Now that she was free, she might gain an education 
such as the laws of slavery denied her. Her mind 
took in knowledge as a dry soil absorbs water. It 
was a pleasure to watch this fresh young mind ex- 
pand and beautify under the influence of cultivation. 
She was a lovely flower in that desolate home, but, 
alas, for the companionship! Would it grow dan- 
gerously dear ? 






The Shadow of Death. 


49 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 

Theke was a shadow hanging over the home and 
heart of Chester Arnold. Death, which for the past 
year had been hovering in the distance, had spread 
his sable wings over that home twice during the 
past few weeks. The infant child had been taken 
from the fond parents’ arms after a three days’ ill- 
ness, and now the husband and father knelt alone in 
the darkened room by the coffin of his wife. Bitter 
indeed were the sighs wrung from the stricken man’s 
heart, as he knelt there, alone in the world. The 
happy family scene, on which the reader gazed a few 
short weeks ago, has passed away forever. Only a 
few days before the coffin of his only child stood here 
in this same room, just where his wife is now lying, 
in her shroud of satin and lace, her sweet face and 
hands as pale as the draperies about her. On the 
morrow that coffin will be buried out of his sight for- 
ever, and he must take up the duties of life again and 
live on, perhaps, for years. Wliat a peaceful expres- 
sion on the frozen countenance. A smile seems 
lurking on the pale, cold lips. Her soul had longed 
for its rest, and now it was gone from its earthly tab- 
ernacle to joys eternal, — gone to meet the pure 
spirit of their baby boy. They were both with God, 
4 


60 


Dorance. 


Ought he not rather to be glad that they had never 
known, could never know now, such grief as was 
bowing him, there by the side of that coffin ? Chester 
Arnold was a Christian. His was not a sorrow with- 
out hope. Bitter as was his cup, he could still look 
up and say, Thy will he doneJ^ 

She had told him not to grieve for her or their 
child, but strive to bring his human hopes and affec- 
tions into submission to the divine will of Him who 
alone can see into the future, but he shuddered when 
he thought of the coming day, and of that open 
grave which was waiting to take his last treasure to 
its cold bosom. 

A servant came softly into the room and lit the 
Cjandles, then, going to the side of the bier, threw her, 
self on the floor, and broke into a wild passion of 
tears. It was Aunt Chlo\ She had nursed her mis- 
tress faithfully through her long hours of suffering, 
and it was her hand had smoothed the pillow and 
closed the eyes when the freed spirit had taken its 
flight. She had repaid kindness for kindness. Now 
that her care was no longer needed, she gave herself 
up to her stormy grief. Chester Arnold in his own 
great bereavement felt a pitying throb for the poor 
woman’s sorrow. He knew she had lost her wisest 
and best friend. Muriel Arnold was loved by all the 
slaves on her husband’s plantation. She had come 
among them three years before, from her Northern 
home, with her gentle heart full of sympathy for their 
hopeless bondage. She felt deepest pity for all the 
race of human beings that for hundreds of years 
had been under the curse of slavery, and to those un- 
der her care she had been a kind Christian mistress. 


The Shadow of Death, 


51 


They had repaid her kindness by their love and obe- 
dience to her slightest wish. 

It had amused her husband at first to see lier deep 
feeling on the subject and her efforts to elevate them, 
but when he studied the true Christian character of 
liis wife, and listened to the sound reasoning of her, 
who, lie at first thought, was led by the impulse of 
the moment, and would soon tire of her self-imposed 
task, he felt condemned for his own narrow views. 
He had never been a hard, brutal master, for such 
qualities were foreign to his nature, yet a system of 
education and continual intercourse with those of 
the same thought and feeling on the subject had 
made his naturally sensitive disposition careless and 
indifferent to those under his charge. Cut Muriel 
Arnold had taught him the lesson of Christian 
charity and sympathy which our Saviour taught his 
disciples eighteen hundred years ago. 

He spoke a few words of comfort to Aunt Clilo’, then 
led lier from the room, and, locking the door, re- 
turned to the side of the pale sleeper in the coffin, to 
keep his lonely vigil there. 

The next morning shone bright and lovely over 
the house of mourning. Nature seemed to mock the 
grief of the group gathered in front of the door and 
on the veranda. All the slaves were assembled to 
take a view of the remains of their mistress. The 
coffin had been carried out on the lawn, and as they 
came up to view the marble face within it, their 
lamentations broke the stillness of the early day. 
Aunt Chlo’ threw herself down on the ground and 
covered her face with her apron, and violent sobs 
shook her whole frame. The child she had brought 


52 


Dormice, 


to the plantation with her stood by her side, its little 
face filled with a look of wonder at the strange scene 
before it. Poor Bess seemed cold and indifferent 
this morning, and they all felt glad that she was so, 
when they remembered her wdld grief at the death of 
their master’s child. Since then she had shown no 
sorrow before them. But Sam, whose superstitious 
fears did not extend to the family burial-ground 
after dark, told them of the number of times he had 
seen her lying on the little grave, moaning out her 
grief to the night winds. 

When the slaves had all become quiet, the coliiii 
was raised from the bier and carried to the grave, 
folio w'ed by the little procession of friends and 
neighbors. 

“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” 
The old-white-haired minister extended his hand over 
the grave and uttered a heart-felt prayer. 

Each one present dropped an offering of perish- 
able flowers, fit tribute to the frailty of life, over the 
fresh mound, and the solemn burial service was 
ended. They all turned away, leaving the liusband 
and father kneeling alone between the graves of wife 
and child. 


Love Stronger than Pride. 


58 


CHAPTER Vlll. 

LOVE STRONGER THAN PRIDE. 

Five years have passed by on the wings of time, 
and we find ourselves on a crowded street in the city 
of New York, following the hurrying throng into an 
opera-house. 

“ What is the attraction? ” we ask of a gentleman 
near us, who is being carried along by the living 
stream. 

‘‘ Why, is it possible you have not heard of the 
great ‘ star ^ ? Such genius has not been known for 
many a day. She is an American girl whose fame 
has been talked of for the last six months in our 
northern cities. She sings to-night for the first time 
in our city. Such beauty and such a voice have not 
startled the world for a long time, they say.” 

Finall}^ we are within the doors, and take our seats, 
Look ! the curtain is rising, and we do look, long and 
earnestly at the fair young face before us. Can it be 
possible our eyes are deceiving us? Surely it is 
Elsie ! the slave-girl, whose sad history we have been 
reading thus far. Yes, dear reader, it is Elsie, but a 
poor slave no longer. She has burst upon the fash- 
ionable world with a splendor that wins the admira- 
tion of every eye as they gaze on her rare beauty and 
listen to the entrancing tones that fall from her lips. 
As she sings, she seems to forget herself, her audi- 


Dor mice. 


C4 

ence^ all else but the music. Her whole soul is 
thrown into the words and tones. Oh, how they ap- 
plaud her ! The walls seem to shake with the en- 
core. Flowers fall at her feet in showers of fragrance 
and bloom. Yet she stands almost unconscious of it 
all, until she sees a small, daintily arranged bouquet, 
thrown directly to her. This bunch of flowers is 
more to her than all the others, it seems. The donor 
is an elderly gentleman whose attention has been 
riveted to the young singer during the whole per- 
formance. “ Why should she prize ld% flowers so 
highly ? ” is the envious thought of many a dandy, 
whose flowers lie unnoticed at her feet. A nearer 
view will tell us why this man’s flowers are more to 
her than all the others. It is the dearly loved mas- 
ter. That proud, aristocratic face and haughty bear- 
ing could be mistaken for no other than Wilbur Alton. 
Elsie still calls him by the name of “ master ” some- 
times when they are alone, although for five years 
she has been free from any master but her own will. 
How does she happen here to-niglit as the greatest 
star of the opera? A few words will tell the story. 

Several months after he had found and brought 
Elsie home, and when he had again settled down in the 
gloomy solitude of Alton Hall, after an extended 
search for his child and fugitive slave, he had asked 
her to sing to him one evening. It was the first 
time since their home-coming from the south, that he 
had thought of asking her to sing, as their hearts 
were both too sad to think of aught but their great 
sorrow. Her tones seemed to fill him with a sense 
of something very sacred and sweet. Could she be 
mortal, and with an uncultivated voice, stir his soul 


Love Stronger than Pride, 


55 


like this; the sarcastic criiic of the finest operas in 
the country ? He had never before heard such depths 
of passionate melody in any voice. When she had 
finished singing, he stooped down and kissed her 
reverently, saying, ‘‘ Where and when did you learn 
to sing like that, my child ? ” 

I do not know, master, my soul seems filled with 
the music sometimes. Do you think I can sing 
well?” 

Then he told her of the great operas, and that her 
voice was the sweetest to which he had ever listened. 
She drank in his words with all the feverish thirst of 
an aspiring soul. From that hour music was her 
highest ambition. She studied incessantly to attain 
her highest ideal in music, because she saw it pleased 
her master; and Elsie believed it her sacred duty, to 
atone to him, as far as possible, for her mother’s sinful 
abduction of his child. That was the great secret of 
her devotion to him. Sweet, unselfish Elsie ! She 
undertook the long, laborious course of study and gave 
it her faithful attention, for more than four years, 
until we see her to-night, the worshipped one of that 
vast throng of spectators. Wilbur Alton had given 
his entire interest to her progress, and when she came 
upon the stage for the first time, and carried her ad- 
miring audience by storm, he had felt a thrill of pride, 
equal to her own, for she was proud of her achieve- 
ments, only because he was so pleased with her. 
Since she had entered into a regular engagement, he 
had gone with her, from State to State, and city to 
city, as her protector, and guardian from all the evils 
that beset the pathway of one so young and gifted. 

He was very jealous of her pure unsullied innocence. 


56 


Dormice, 


His little girl should not grow vain, and selfish, and 
unmaidenly. Did he ever stop to think why he was 
so anxious for her, so proud of her beauty, so jealous 
of her favor? No, he did not He was content to 
admire her and be always near her. In answer to all 
questions concerning her, he replied that she had been 
left to his charge, and thei*e was a haughty way with 
him when he chose, that forbade all further question- 
ing. He had strictly forbidden Elsie to speak of her 
slavery or call him master when in the presence of 
others, and so, all tliat the world knew or could find 
out concerning the beautiful singer was mere supposi- 
tion. 

Some said she was a Jewess, others gave her the dis- 
tinguished position of a nobleman’s daughter, but the 
idea most generally believed was, that she was the 
daughter of a rich Cuban, who had died, leaving his 
cliild to the guardianship of his friend ; but where the 
friendship was ever contracted was not known. Not 
one guessed the real truth, although it would have 
been more probable that a Southern gentleman w^ou Id 
liave a beautiful slave, than to have cliarge of a Span- 
ish nobleman’s daughter. 

If Wilbur Alton had proclaimed the fact that he 
had given this beautiful girl her freedom from the 
bondage of ignoble slavery, had educated her, and 
watched her musical progress with an interest and 
affection, that was like that of a father for his child, 
the world would have hooted at him. He well knew 
that all men, both North and South, would have ex- 
ecrated him had he told them all the interest he felt 
iu this rarely gifted girl, who was but a slave by birth, 
and that he was growing to love her with an inten- 


Love Stronger than Pride, 


57 


sity of feeling that was paramo unt to birth or blood. 

What would be his lonely life without her ? As 
lie sat to-night drinking in all the intoxication of her 
rich beauty and rare genius, there had come to him 
ilie knowledge that she was more to him than all the 
world beside — was all he had to live for or to love, 
now that all hope was dead of ever again finding his 
cliild. How had he lived these five years without 
realizing that this admiration, this sympathy which 
had filled his heart for her, was love, true, and deep, 
and abiding as life itself ? He could scarcely restrain 
liimself until the close of the evening. He so longed 
to tell her how she had stirred his soul from its slug- 
gish languor. Had he forgotten his sorrow for his 
lost wife ? No ! He knew he could never love 
another as he had loved the bride of his youth. His 
affection for this girl was different, in that he felt her 
devotion to him was something sacred, something to 
demand his deepest sympathy in return. She had 
poured out her love as precious oil on his troubled 
lieart when he so greatly needed her tender sympatliy, 
and now that she had stilled its wild agony, and 
made him feel that life was sweet by her side, ouglit 
lie not to shield her life by his love, to give her tlic 
honorable protection of his name? What if there 
was a mixed blood in her veins? Many of the 
South’s proud aristocrats could not boast a much 
clearer title than hers. Look at her glorious beauty ! 
She was fitted to grace any position, and, besides, who 
was there to dispute his will in the matter ? W’^ho 
need know of her mother, from whom she derived 
lier small drop of dark blood ? He had heard the 
story many times of his father’s beautiful slave Ohio,’ 


68 


Dorance. 


and of the passion of a young man, las father’s guest, 
for her. It was a mad, reckless love, bringing naught 
but trouble in its train. It was a sad story wherein 
a slave’s rights were iitteidy disregarded. Elsie was 
the fruit of that mad passion, the Dead-sea fruit of 
lier mother’s wrongs and the only tie that bound 
that mother to life. 

Wilbur Alton sighed as he thought of his share in 
that mother’s sorrow, and of the little son lost to him 
by her frenzied act. 

What if this girl had been his dead wife's slave ? 
Was she inferior to her mistress in any way ? Again he 
looked at the slender figure dressed in her robe of 
silk and lace, and his heart acknowledged she was 
the equal in every respect, except in point of birth, 
to liis cherished wife. Yes, he would marry her. He 
sat lost in a deep reverie, until the stir all around 
him awakened him to the fact that the curtain had 
dropped on the final scene. 

He hurried around to the side entrance, whence 
Elsie presently emerged, wrapped in a white cloak 
with the hood drawn close about her face. 

He drew her hand through his arm and led her to 
the carriage. He sat silent by her side during the 
drive to their boarding place. Arrived there, he led 
her upstairs to her rooms and when she would have 
withdrawn her hand from his arm, he held it fast, 
and entered the room with her. Closing the door, 
he bade her remove her wraps, as he wished to talk 
to her. She obeyed, then came and laid her hand 
on his arm saying, ‘‘Did I not please you, master?” 

“ Yes, Elsie, you pleased me so well that I felt 
jealous of their applause. You have always pleased 


Love Stronger than Pride* 


59 


me, my dear. I feel to-night that my life would be a 
blank without you. I want 3'ou for my own. Will 
you come to my heart and arms, Elsie ?” 

He stretched out his hands to her, with his ej’es 
fnll of yearning love. Willi a glad cry she stepped 
within his outstretched arms. For one moment she 
yielded iierself to the sweet intoxication of a requited 
love, then disengaging herself from him, she led him 
to a cliair, and kneeling down at his side, said in a 
low sorrowful voice, ‘‘Oh master, it is hard, so hard, 
to put this great happiness from me, when I have 
craved it so long, but I must do it. I am not a fit 
wife for 3'ou. No, don’t speak yet. Let me say it 
while I liave strength and courage. I am only a 
slave by birth, 3^0111’ dead wife’s serving-maid, 
while 3'OU are a proud gentleman of noble birth. 
Oh, don’t tempt me like this ! I know 3’ou love 
me. You know I love you dearer than my life. Let 
it rest here. We can be nothing more than this to 
each other. You are my master, and I am 3’our 
servant, your daughter, your friend, anything, so 
that I can be always with 3'ou.” 

“My child, 3'OU are fit to be my wife. You fire 
my superior in everything that goes to make up the 
perfect human soul in God’s sight. What care the 
angels in heaven that you were born in slavery? Is 
your heart less womanl3% 3’our clean, because 

of that? The accident of 3’our birth is nothing 
to me. Love levels all barriers. Oh, Elsie, don’t 
put me from you ! I cannot live without 3^ou my 
darling.” 

“Dear, dear master, I don’t want 3^11 to live with- 
out me. Can we not live just as we have been doing? 


60 


Do ran ee. 


i licive been so happy, — 1 who was accursed iVom iny 
birth. Do you think I could bring my curse on your 
proud name? Think of your angel wife — woukl you 
disgrace her memory ? and o£ your lost son — would 
he recognize a slave, his father s slave^ as his proud 
mother’s successor? No, no, I will not listen ! It can 
never be. You must forget that you have ever said 
these words.” 

"‘Elsie, I will not forget. I cannot forget if I 
would, that I love you or tliat you loved me when all 
the world looked dark. Now the future looks bright 
again. It is you wlio have made it so, and we will 
si I are all its bright skies or dark shadows together. 
Donh say me nay ! I love you, and that is enough for 
me.” 

Me kissed lier brow, her lips, her cheeks. He press- 
ed lier yet closer to him with such a look of joy as 
she remembered to have seen on his face when he 
kissed liis wife or fondled his child, in the old happy 
days. He had been very happy then, but the wife 
liad died, the son was as lost to him as thougli death 
had claimed him also. Ought she to blast this happi- 
ness that was so new to him, or quench tlie brigln- 
blaze that she had kindled from the gray ashes c>f 
foimer joys? If he loved her, the slave born on liis * 
plantation, why should she not take the hHpi)iness 
God had sent her ? So when he again asked lier it 
she consented, and smiled down upon her, with tlie 
love-light burning in his eyes, she murmured her an- 
swer, with her cheek pressed to his, and an answering 
light in her own deep, soulful orbs. 


Marriaye 


61 


CHAPTER IX. 

MARRIAGE VOWS. 

The words fell with a deep meaning upon the ears 
of Elsie, as she stood before tlie altar, in the little 
dimly-lighted chapel, and took the solemn marriage 
vows. 

There was a radiant look on her countenance as she 
listened to Wilbur Alton’s deep-toned responses. 
When the service was concluded and they turned to 
leave the church, he took her hand in his and pressed 
a reverential kiss upon the fair brow. It had been a 
hard battle to conquer all her fears. Even at the last 
moment she had faltered, and asked him if lie thouglit 
his dead Agnes could look down with a blessing 
upon them? For answer he had put his strong arm 
around the trembling form, saying, ‘‘ I believe my dead 
wife sanctions our marriage. I liave questioned my 
heart very closely these last few weeks, and my con- 
science fully approves of what I am doing. Elsie, it 
isn’t so much what the world says, as whether God 
is pleased, and I feel his blessing on me now. Put 
such gloomy doubts from your mind, and let us be as 
happy as we can. You are happy, are you not, my 
little'^girl ? ” 

“Yes, Wilbur, I am almost too happy. That is 
what makes me fear.” 

She had brought the subject of their unequal birth 
before him in every light, but he had put her fears 


62 


Dorance. 


all to flight, saying, “ I love you and love makes all 
ranks equal.” 

So they were married, and the slave girl was raised 
to a position equal to that of any lady in our free, 
glorious, America. There were many men of good 
position and family among her acquaintances, who 
would have felt proud to call her ^^wife,” while in 
ignorance of the facts of her birth. What the public 
feeling towards her miglit have been, had her parent- 
age been known, she could not say, and for her hus- 
band’s sake she wished it not to be known. 

Few persons, besides the slaves on tlie Alton plan- 
tation, wei-e aware of the circumstances of her birth. 
What most troubled Elsie, was the thought that lier 
husband’s son, might return to curse lier as his proud 
mother’s successor. Elsie had not given up tlie hope 
that her mother and the lost heir might yet be found. 
When she spoke of this, her liusband bade her put 
such fancies from her mind. They were beginning a 
new life now, and he did not wish to remember the 
old pain. 

Three days after their quiet wedding they em- 
barked for Europe. Elsie was to complete her mu- 
sical studies in Italy, and for two years she studied 
and sang, amid the scenes of a world which a few 
j-ears before had seemed as vague to her mind as the 
interior of the earth. At last Wilbur Alton spoke 
of coming liome. Elsie hesitated at first without, 
however, giving sufficient reason for rebelling against 
his wishes, and so they set sail for American sliores. 

Her last evening in Paris had been the most bril- 
liant of all her musical career. Truly she was a 
genius. Oh, how proud her husband was of her at 


Marriage Vows. 


63 


these times ! She gloried in her success only because 
it pleased him. His wishes were the study of her 
whole life. She sang for a year after her return to 
her own country, then her health began to fail. She 
had studied with unremitting diligence, and the 
fatigue of travelling and appearing before the crowded 
audiences her name was sure to attract, had proven 
too great a strain for lier naturally delicate constitu- 
tion. 

Wilbur Alton’s pride was merged in anxiety for 
his wife’s health, and he wrote to his overseer to 
prepare for their early home-coming. She was to sing 
once more, and once only, for her physician had told 
her she needed absolute rest from fatigue of any kind. 
She was then to return home to the plantation in 
Tennessee, to recruit her strength. 

It was in the capital of our country, Washington, 
that she would raise her voice in song for the last 
time before quitting tlie stage. 

Never had her husband heard her sing like that 
before. It seemed she almost surpassed herself. The 
audience sat spell-bound until tlie last note had died 
away, and the faintest echo had ceased to reverberate. 
For a moment they seemed to be breathless, op- 
pressed by a weiglit of melody, and then they cheered 
as they had never cheered before. Flowers rained 
down upon the stage until she stood hedged in by 
their color and fragrance, her feet buried in bloom. 
Three times she appeared before her worshipping 
audience ere they would be quieted. It w^as known 
that this was her last appearance in public, and they 
were loth to let her go. Elsie’s success was com- 
plete. She felt weak and faint from her unusual 


64 


Jjo ranee. 


effort, and felt glad to rest after reaching the hotel. 
A lad of about twelve years of age came into the 
parlor and gazed at her with a look of admiration 
mingled with awe. He had heard her sing that 
evening, and to liis young mind she seemed a vision 
too fair for earth. She smiled and held out her hand 
to him, asking his name. 

“ Dorance, madam, and my master is Mr. Arnold 
of Virginia.” 

Elsie’s heart almost stopped beating at the men- 
tion of his name, and she glanced toward her hus- 
band, who stood talking with an elderly gentleman 
at the other side of the room. 

It is a pretty name,” she said and you remind 
me somewhat of a lady I once knew. Where did 
you say you lived, my boy ? ” 

In Virginia, madam. That is my master standing 
there.” 

‘‘ Your master ! Then you are not his son? ” 

Just then the gentleman spoke to the lad, and, 
turning to her, asked her to excuse the boy’s inquis- 
itiveness. 

Indeed it is I who have been inquisitive. I was 
surprised when he spoke of you as his master. Can 
it be he is a slave? ” 

“ No, madam, not a slave, but a sort of prot^g^ of 
mine. I have no children and the boy interests me. 
He is, as you say, a very intelligent lad of his years.’’ 

‘‘You are, like myself, childless,” said Wilbur 
Alton, at which Elsie raised her eyes to her husband’s 
face with a wistful, yearning look. 

Was he thinking, too, of the lost son and heir of 
Alton Hall ? 


Marrtaye l^oiV8. 


65 


Mr. iVrnold bade them good-evening and left the 
room, followed by the boy, who turned at the door to 
gaze again at the beautiful woman whose singing 
had been a new revelation to him. Wilbur Alton’s 
eyes followed him until the door shut him from his 
view, then turning to his wife, said, ‘‘ Elsie, I fancy 
my lost son would have looked like that lad, had he 
lived. There was surely a look of my dead wife in 
the boy’s face. How these chance resemblances 
startle one sometimes.” 

Wilbur, why do you always speak of your son as 
dead?” 

“ Because Elsie, if he had been living, 1 must surely 
liave found some clue to him. God in his pity for 
my suffering would have given him back to me. Ah, 
His ways are past our finding out, yet I will try to 
say. His will, not mine be done.” 

Poor, mistaken father I if he could have known that 
ten minutes before lie gazed on that long-lost sou 
what would have been his feelings ? It was some- 
thing more than the lad's name that spoke to his 
heart, something deeper than a chance expression of 
feature. It was the dearer tie of blood, of a parent’s 
strong love for his own child, and yet lie had failed 
to understand it. Strange, indeed, that such things 
can happen. Stranger still, if he had guessed the 
truth, when this boy, the prot^g^ of a gentleman in 
a distant State, stood before him, and he, believing 
his child dead, had recognized him as his long-lost 
son. 

But fate must weave her web still longer. Would 
they ever meet again in this world ? God alone 

o 


66 


Dorance* 


could tell, and yet father and boy slept that night 
sheltered by the same roof. 

Elsie’s thoughts recurred again and again to the 
lad, until she felt angry with herself for letting her 
mind dwell on him so. But she could not drive the 
thoughts from her. They w^ould come, and when at 
last she fell asleep, it was only to dream of him. 

The next morning found Wilbur Alton and his 
wife aboard a south-bound boat. Elsie felt glad that 
she would know the quiet and peace of home at last. 
Her married life thus far had been a very unsettled 
one, travelling here and there, and never long in one 
place. 

She had felt a reluctance to their leaving Europe 
and returning to this country, where her birth might 
be known and her husband’sproud spirit made to suffer 
through her. She was very sensitive on that point. 
Death would have been easier to her than to know 
he felt any humiliation because of her. It had seemed 
at first that she could never go back, as the wdfe 
of Wilbur Alton, to the old plantation where she 
had been born in slavery ; but she was so thorough- 
ly tired of this roving life, that now the thought 
of home was very w^elcome to her. 

When they arrived there the hearty greeting they 
received dispelled all her doubts at once as to her 
place ill the esteem of her husband’s slaves. They 
looked upon their master with a sort of reverence, 
that he had helped their race such a long step up- 
w^ard tow^ard the freedom they craved, and believed 
would sometime be theirs. As for Elsie herself, they 
felt like falling at lier feet and worshipping her. 

They had always recognized her superior intelli* 


Marriage T^O'irs, 


67 


geuce, and when they heard of the universal homage 
she received on “bofe sides ob de woiiV’ they ex- 
pressed it, they felt that they had a common human- 
ity with the white race, and an equal kinship with 
the great All-Father. 


68 


Dorance* 


CHAPTER X. 

NEW HOPES. 

‘‘How is she this morning, Doctor?” 

“ Well, Mr. Alton, I have a little more hope of her 
recovery to-day. The fever is broken at last ; but 
she is very weak, very weak, sir. Let there be as 
little confusion in the room as possible. No one 
must go in there but the attendants. I would advise 
you to stay away entirely to-day. I will be in again 
this afternoon.” 

“ Then there is a hope for her. Don’t deceive me. 
Doctor.” 

“ I am not deceiving you, sir. There is a hope, if 
no excitement occurs to raise the fever again. I 
think you said she had had this fever once before.” 

“ Yes ; several years ago.” 

“There is no constitution to build upon, yet I 
hope to save her, with God’s help,” said the old 
gray-haired physician, as he took his leave. 

For three days more of anxious time, three days 
of dreadful suspense, Wilbur Alton crept in and out 
of his wife’s room with noiseless step, very happy 
when in her waking moments she raised her wan 
eyes to his face and recognized him. He hung on 
the doctor’s every look and word, with an anxiety 
that was almost beyond endurance. When at last 
the old doctor said she would live, Wilbur Alton 
dropped into his chair and covered his face with his 


Neiv Hopes, 


69 


hands, and a burst of thanksgiving went up from the 
depths of his heart to the God who had dealt thus 
mercifully with him. What a terrible suspense those 
last six weeks liad been to him ! But now he could 
go to her and tell her of the little child that had 
come to her arms during her delirium — a frail, prema- 
ture babe whose existence had hung on a slender 
thread for many days. When the month old infant 
was laid on her bosom, and she looked into the little 
face so like her own, when her first kisses fell on the 
baby lips and hands of her little son, the man’s joy 
was complete. Perhaps he felt more in that moment 
than did Elsie in all her joy of first motherhood. 
Not only was the strong paternal love stirred to its 
depths, but the young mother was restored to him 
from the very gates of death. The terrible raving 
of the past six weeks was ended, the fever had 
burned itself out, and Elsie, whose life had twice so 
nearly gone out with it, was slowly coming back to a 
realization of her surroundings. She contrasted her 
present condition with the time when she had first 
been stricken down on the low, swampy plantation in 
Georgia. What a difference between then and now 
in her life. How welcome death would have been 
to her then. How fervently she had prayed for it, 
not dreaming of all the happiness of the coming years. 
Again she had been saved from a fatal termination, 
that she might realize all a mother’s first love. How 
much she had hoped from the coming of this child, 
believing it might make the father forget a part of 
the bitterness that filled his heart when he thought of 
his first-born son. And it had brought peace with it, 
had restored his shaken faith in the justice of his 


To 


Donvnce, 


God, Only the shadow of his great sorrow remained. 
He would never forget his first-born, but this child 
could feed the father’s hopes and ambition. 

More than all else, had Elsie hoped ifc might atone, 
in some degree, for her mother’s sin in thus laying 
waste the dearest hopes of his earlier years. Yes, 
God had blessed her with tlie dearest wish of her 
heart, in giving her this little child, and Elsie bowed 
her head on the unconscious baby-breast and uttered 
a prayer of thanksgiving for the precious gift. 

When she was strong enough to bear the journey, 
Wilbur Alton took his wife and child to spend the 
early autumn months at a picturesque little village 
nestled among the mountains. The wild beauty of 
the scenery, together with the bracing air attracted a 
considerable number of visitors every year. 

The place seemed full already but they secured a 
comfortable stopping-place in an old-fashioned farm- 
house a mile from the little village, which was a far 
pleaanster arrangement to Elsie’s mind than a crowded 
hotel in a more public place. Nature had been prod- 
igal in her gifts of beauty to this quiet place. Moun- 
tain and valley, river and wood, together with the art 
of man, in building liis cottage and decorating his 
grounds, combined to render Glenwood one of the 
most lovely places to be found in the state of Tennes- 
see. 

So thought Elsie, as she sat by some tiny fall, or 
cascade, and gazed off over the valley or up at the 
blue line of mountains, their sides resplendent in 
their autumn dress of green and scarlet and gold, all 
flooded with the yellow autumn sunshine or hazy 
with thin autumn mists. 




71 


The rose tints were every day deepening on the 
fair cheeks and sweet lips, and the light of perfect 
happiness shone in the dark eyes. Her liusband often 
looked at her and wondered at the radiance that lit 

f 

up her countenance at times, those rare moments 
when the soul catches a glimpse of heaven’s pure joy. 

“ You are happy, Elsie, very happy, if your face 
speaks truly.” 

“ Yes, Wilbur, I am very happy. 1 have great 
cause to be happy, for I have you and baby, and this 
beautiful place was made for happiness. I can hard- 
ly think sin would long abide here. God and nature 
speak too plainly, and, to my heart, at least, in a lan- 
guage of perfect love and peace that I have never 
realized before. Did you over see a more beautiful 
scene than that across the river ? ” 

She pointed with her hand, to the view spread 
out before them, and in silonce they gazed on God's 
lovely handiwork. 

In the distance rose the mountains piled high to 
the heavens, their summits crowned with a purple 
mist, their base covered with a variegated foliage. 
The valley lay between them and the foot-hills to the 
more distant range, its smooth bosom dotted here and 
there with farm-houses and sleek herds of cattle. The 
village shone clear and Avhite to the right, its church 
spire rising high above the surrounding roofs, speak- 
ing of peace and a risen Saviour to the beholders, while 
to the left, the river made a short bend, and fell over 
the rocks a hundred feet to the open plain below. 

It was a scene on which Elsie never tired of gazing. 
On warm sunny afternoons she would go out to the 
rocks, her favorite resort, and sit for hours lost in 


72 


Do loanee. 


happy reverie. Then, as evening shadows stole over 
the valley, she would send the nurse back to the house 
with the child, and wrapping her shawl about her, 
would wait for her husband’s return from the woods 
or river, whither he had gone hunting or fishing. 

So the weeks glided by, and Elsie gained a new 
lease of life from the pure mountain air and plain, 
wholesome food. 

One afternoon, the last of her stay at Glenwood, she 
took her chair to a sheltered nook of the veranda and 
busied herself with some bright-colored zephyrs. Her 
husband came out at length, and drawing a chair close 
beside her, watched her busy fingers in silence for a 
while. 

What are you doing, Elsie ?” he inquired at last. 

Making a sacque for my baby, isn’t it pretty ? 

, She held it up for his inspection, a bright smile 
lighting up her lovely face. 

‘‘ Yes, it is very nice, but it seems to me, our boy 
ought to have a name. He is nearly five months old, 
is he not ? ” 

“ Five months, next Tuesday. Shall we call him 
Wilbur? It is the prettiest name I can think of,” 
said the wife fondly. 

No, Elsie, not that name. It might bring him 
ill luck.” 

“ Nonsense, Wilbur, you are not the least bit 
superstitious ; and, besides, what is there unlucky 
about your name ? ” 

“ Elsie, it was a part of my lost son’s name, and if 
for no other reason, I should object to calling our 
baby that.” 

Forgive me, dear. I had forgotten it was part of 
\ 


Neiv Ilope^%. 73 

little Dorance’s name. Choose any name you wish.” 

‘‘ Then suppose we call him by my father’s name, 
Victor Ross. Ross was my grandmother’s maiden 
name, and a pure, untarnished name it was.” 

‘‘ Yes, it is a pretty name, and we will have him 
christened ^ Victor Ross,’ if you wish it.” 

‘‘ Thank you, dear wife, for your concession. Now 
get your hat and we will take our last stroll on the 
rocks. How hazy the atmosphere is to-day. You 
can barely see the church-spire. Which way shall 
we go ? Down below the falls ? How subdued the 
sound of the falling water is, in this heavy air. I 
hope we shall have a fair day to-morrow for our 
journey home.” 


74 


l)oranoe. 


CHAPTER XI. 

DORANCE. 

Chester Arnold sat in a rustic chair on the 
greensward before his door, and watched the sun 
slowly sinking behind a bank of clouds in the west, 
The liouse had become unbearable with tlie stifling 
heat, and so he had removed his seat to the open air. 
His newspaper had dropped to the ground, and his 
thoughts were far away from the price of cotton, and 
indigo, and sugar. The beauty of the sunset had 
litred his thoughts from the current topics of the day, 
and carried him, in imagination, to the portals of that 
shining world into which his eyes seemed looking 
through the gorgeous sunset. 

He was interrupted in his pleasant musings by a 
lady who came out on the veranda, and, seeing Mr. 
Arnold enjoying the evening air, ordered a lad who 
was lounging over the railing to bring her a chair also. 
He obeyed at once, tlien walked away to a little dis- 
tance and joined a boy of about his own age, and a 
girl some three years younger, who were playing 
at ‘ grace-hoop ’ on the lawn. The lady looked at 
the boy’s retreating figure with a scornful curl of her 
lip, then turning to Mr. Arnold said, ‘‘Chester, 
I do wish you would give a satisfactory answer 
as to your object in educating that boy like he was 


Jjorance, 


76 


your own sou. How do you do it under the present 
law concerning slaves ? ’’ 

‘‘ As to that,” replied Mr. Arnold, I have made 
it all safe so far as the law is concerned, and I think 
the lad’s superior talents and eager thirst for knowh 
edge amply repay me for any time or trouble I have 
taken with him so far. His intelligence is far beyond 
the average for a boy of his years.” 

“ That may be, but what will he do with his edu- 
cation when he gets it, but be dissatisfied with his 
position and fit for nothing to you. He will be running 
away one of these days. He is getting very insolent 
now. Onl)^ this afternoon, Herbert ordered him to 
brush his shoes, and he refused, saying that was not 
his employment. I wonder you don’t punish him 
for his insolence.” 

The boy has never been insolent to me in his 
life ! Perhaps he was employed at the time. I re- 
member 1 gave him some accounts to sum up for 
me this afternoon.’' 

“ But do you allow any of your slaves to speak to 
your nephew like that ? I thought it was his busi- 
ness to do as his betters ordered him. I did not 
know you were in a hurry for your accounts* 
Really, Chester, I think you do wrong to raise one 
of that class above his proper level.” 

“ What is his proper level, Berenice, can you tell 
me?” 

“ Why, Chester, you surprise me ! The boy is a 
dave^ is he not? A poor vagabond who was brought 
here by a degraded woman, who acknowledged she 
had run away from her master. As well ask who 
any of your slaves are,” 


76 


Dorance, 


‘‘No ; it is a very different affair. The boy is not 
under bondage to me. It is true he was brought 
here by Aunt Chlo’, but he is not her child, and I 
feel convinced that he is of white parentage. Beyond 
all question he is a very superior lad, and I should 
be proud of him as my son. As it is, I am much in- 
terested in his progress, and the boy will be a noble- 
souled man yet, in spite of fate, which seems so 
adverse to him.” 

“ For my part, I think fate is extraordinarily good 
and kind to him. Many sons of proud men of high 
birth and blood, would be thankful for so kind a fate 
as to their education,” answered the lady, with acri- 
mony. 

She was the widow of Chester Arnold’s only 
brother, and came every summer to spend the hot 
months at her brother-in-law’s plantation, because she 
could not afford to go to a fashionable resort. She 
was a vain, shallow woman, of extreme notions as to 
rich people’s positions, and was fastidious as to ser- 
vants and their places. Her highest ambition was to 
make a wealthy match and secure her position before 
her daughter was old enough to go into society. 
She had been a widow for five years at the time of 
her introduction to the reader. Mrs. Berenice Ar- 
nold was a lady of good birth, the only daughter of a 
merchant, who had died before her marriage, leaving 
a considerable estate to her. Economy had never 
been one of her virtues, and when her husband died 
she was not left a rich widow, though well provided 
for. Her only son was like her in disposition — ex- 
travagant and selfish, while the daughter was like 
her husband’s people, 


V 


Bor mice. 


77 


Maud’s unfailing good humor and kindly impulses 
made her a great favorite with her Uncle Chester, 
who had loved his only brother, and pitied him when 
he married this silly woman, whose weak indulgence 
had spoiled her son effectually. No amount of 
humoring could spoil Maud Arnold, who was loved 
by all her friends quite as much as her brother was 
disliked. 

Mrs. Berenice Arnold’s dislike toward Dorance 
was because the lad had outstripped Herbert in all 
his studies, and because she was jealous of her 
brother-in-law’s interest in the poor boy. 

“ What can Chester mean by saying he believed 
the boy to be of white parentage? Just one of his 
Quixotic notions, , I suppose. What would Aunt 
Chlo’ be doing with a child of white extraction ? She, 
a runaway slave ! ” thought the lady. But she dared 
not question her brother-in-law too closely. She 
stood in wholesome awe of Chester Arnold and his 
wealth, which she desired for Herbert, and it dis- 
pleased her that he should spend even a small part 
of it for “ the vagabond,” as she termed Dorance. 

It has been said that ‘‘ the thirst for knowledge 
cannot be created in us, but must be born with us,” 
and certainly it seemed true in the case of Dorance. 
Several years before this time the master had come 
suddenly upon the boy, lying face downward in the 
grass and sobbing in that hopeless way that is always 
painful to see in one so young. After much coaxing, 
and a stern command, Chester Arnold learned of the 
boy’s intense desire and thirst for knowledge. Maud 
had wanted, a few days before, to teach him to read 
and write, but Herbert had told his mother that 


78 


Uorance. 


she was going to educate a * nigger,’ ” and Mrs. 
Berenice Arnold had ordered her daughter to ‘‘let 
the bastard alone.” Maud was sorry to have to quit 
the lessons, for she appreciated the boy’s intelligence 
and took a deep interest in teaching him. Chester 
Arnold had comforted the boy with a promise to 
give him an education, and had xnt him North to a 
select school for boys in less than six weeks after- 
ward. 

Mrs. Arnold held up her handc in holy horror 
at this queer freak of her brother-inJaw. “ What 
would he do with the insolent puppy after educating 
him ? ” 

Chester Arnold simply replied that he would make 
him his secretary, or, if he found the boy too insolent 
for that, he would send him to Canada to do as he 
pleased with his knowledge. 

The astonished lady believed Mr. Arnold was tak- 
ing leave of his senses. The man could not account 
to himself for the interest he took in the boy. The 
lad’s unusual powers of mind for one in his position 
would scarcely justify him in giving him his freedom, 
and educating him “ above his proper level,” as his 
sister-in-law would term it. Again came the perplex- 
ing thought, “ What was his proper level ? ” There 
was some mystery surrounding the boy. 

Aunt Chlo’s words and manner had convinced him 
of that. She had acknowledged he was not her child 
by birth. He had then asked whether the boy had 
negro blood in his veins. The woman wheeled round, 
her eyes wild with terror, her face gray and quivering 
with fear. 

“ Mars’r, whatever should ye ax me sich a question 


fur ? \¥hat else should the chile be but a niggah, 
an’ me a slave-born woman ? Whar should I git a 
white chile, Mars’r?” 

No further information could be elicited from her, 
but Chester Arnold was sure there was some mystery 
about it. Then it was, he had had the boy’s free- 
papers made out and had determined to give him the 
chance of an education. Under existing laws he could 
not educate a slav'j to any "tirsat extent, but the law 
did not prevent a joian hem’ 3ing tis slaves for his 
own interests. He could assert hk need for a secre- 
tary, as an excuse for giving the lad some knowledge 
of books. He had never told anyone, not even the 
boy himself, that he was free from any master. So 
Dorance had gone on quietly with his studies, believ^- 
ing he was to be his master’s accountant, and in no 
respect was he insolent to those whom he believed 
his superiors. 

There was a native dignity about him, an inborn 
pride, which made it impossible for him to assume 
a servile manner to anyone. 

Maud Arnold was to him an angel of light, but he 
disliked her mother, quite as heartily as she did him. 

When the summer vacation was ended, Dorance re- 
turned to his school, while Mrs. Berenice Arnold with 
Herbert and Maud returned to their home in Balti- 
more. Mr. Arnold felt lonoly in his home. He 
missed Maud’s bright ways, and sweet affection, and 
— ^yes he would own the truth to himself, he missed 
Dorance more than any of them. 

He lit his segar one evening, and walking out 
through the shrubbery, threw himself on the ground 
under a clump of shrubs, and gave himself up to his 


80 


iJoranee, 


half sad thoughts, not knowing that his cigar had 
died out long ago nor that there were voices near him, 
until he heard his own name mentioned. 

Aunt Ohio", and Bess were quite near him, yet did 
not see him, as lie lay in the shadow of the bushes. 
They were speaking of Dorance, and it was nearly an 
hour after tliey had passed on to the negro quarters, 
that Chester Arnold rose from his place, and went 
back to the house, thinking intently of what he had 
overheard them say. 

Who was the master of whom they spoke, that 
Dorance so much resembled, and the dead mistress of 
whom they talked so reverently ? 

This was a deeper mystery than he had supposed. 
Of one thing he was certain now, Dorance was of 
white parentage, and perhaps of good birth also. 

. “ That remains to be proven yet, my boy,” he 
murmured. ‘‘I will unravel this mj^stery. God 
grant there is no dark crime or disgrace connected 
with you, my noble-souled Dorance.” 



At Ulmwood Grrange. 


81 


CHAPTER XIL 

AT ELMWOOD GRANGE. 

We will now pass over a period of seven years, 
with a brief explanation of our characters. 

Wilbur Alton and his wife are living in quiet re- 
tirement at Alton Hall. There is a look of sadness 
about them that speaks of a recent sorrow. Their 
only child is dead. 

Again the father’s hopes are shattered. There is a 
bitter, rebellious feeling in his breast as he thinks of 
all the plans for the future of his boy, low-laid in his 
grave, cut down in the beauty of youth, almost in an 
hour’s time. The bright hopes of the past seven 
years are lying broken and worthless now, and the 
strong man bends to his Maker’s will in rebellion 
against his decrees. He cannot be submissive yet, 
the blow is too recent and severe. There is many a 
thread of silver in the luxuriant dark hair and beard, a 
hopeless look of sorrow in the dark eyes, Elsie, too, is 
wan and haggard. The loss of her only child weighs 
heavily on her, yet she feels more sorrow for her hus- 
band’s grief than for her own great loss. She alone 
knows how completely his whole heart was bound 
up in the future of the little child who w^as the last 
of the name and race of Alton, except this broken 
and sorrow-laden man. Even in the midst of her 
own sorrow she feels deepest pity for his great grieh 
as she hears his weary sighs and notes the fast chang- 
6 


82 


Dorance, 


iug hair. She begs him to see it was God’s love that 
took their child away from a world of sin while he 
was yet innocent. “ Perhaps he would have grown 
wild and reckless as he came up to manhood, and 
have caused you deeper sorrow than to part with 
him now. Let us bow in submission to God’s will, 
my husband. Even his chastisements are given in 
mercy. He is our loving Father still. Will you not 
try to think of it thus ? ” 

Elsie, it is God’s curse on me for driving your 
mother away with my first-born son. I thought that 
sin had been forgiven me, but alas ! I know now our 
sins can never be blotted out.” 

‘‘ Oh Wilbur, Wilbur, you are all wrong ! It .s 
blasphemy to talk thus. We could not see into the 
future. God could, and has saved little Victor from 
its temptations and sufferings. He is safe in the 
arms of our Saviour, a rosebud transplanted from 
earth to heaven. It may be that your lost son will 
yet be restored to you. Something tells me it will 
be so. Don’t lose your faith in God. Let the light 
of His love dispel the thick darkness that is shutting 
you in from all hope.” 

Elsie was now, as she had always been, his one 
comfort in all his trouble, and after many weeks of 
almost hopeless despair there was born in his lieart 
again a faint hope that his lost son and heir might be 
found. It was something to live for, at least, and 
again every energy was bent to the task of gaining 
some clue to the hiding place of his son, if he yet 
lived. 

Mrs. Berenice Arnold had succeeded in winning a 
rich husband, and Maud was at a fashionable school 


At Elmwood Grange. 8o 

for young ladies, while Herbert was preparing to 
enter college. Yet, we are sorry to say, his chances 
for passing an examination with any degree of credit 
were very meagre indeed. 

( Mr. Arnold had persisted in his course toward 
Dorance, contrary to his august sister-in-law’s advice, 
and the lad was pursuing his studies with all the zeal 
that characterized his early boyhood. His diligence 
and aptitude made him a favorite with his teachers, 
and on the play-ground no boy among them was liked 
better than the genial-hearted, kindly-dispositioned 
lad, who seemed one of them, yet between whom and 
his companions lay that wide, almost impassable gulf, 
dividing the bondman from the free-born citizen 
of this ‘our free America.’ He had scrupulously 
kept the knowledge from them of his ignoble position. 
Chester Arnold had never yet told Dorance of the 
mystery surrounding him, nor that he believed him 
other than a slave. He did not wish to raise any 
false hope in his breast, fearing he could not solve 
the mysteiy concerning his parentage. 

He had determined, if possible, when Dorance had 
finished his education, to compel Aunt Chlo’ or Bess 
to disclose the secret, and until then Dorance should 
be kept in ignorance of the fact that he was not 
a slave, was not born in a bondage as hopeless as that 
of the Israelites under the Egyptians. 

And now, we will take a nearer view of the in- 
mates of Elmwood Grange. The master, looking 
just a little older, but with the same kindly expres- 
sion on his face, is standing on the veranda, a look 
of expectancy in his eyes. By his side is a young 
girl, a niece of his dead wife, who had been left to 


84 


Dontnce, 


his care a year before, by an elderly aunt. Elmwood 
Grange had proved a safe and happy home to her, 
while in return her fair face and young, joyous voice 
brightened the old house and made merry echoes in 
the wide hall. Her face is full of intelligence and 
feeling, and the violet eyes mirror every emotion of 
the pure soul. The brown hair is combed smoothly 
back from the wide, full forehead, and braided in a 
long heavy braid, tied with a blue ribbon. Her dress 
is a simple blue and white cambric, and her only or- 
naments are a cluster of pink tea roses at her throat 
and in her belt. She, too, is looking for some one, 
for she asks of Mr. Arnold, whom she calls uncle, 
how soon they may expect the carriage. 

Mrs. Berenice Arnold, now Mrs. Clyne ” is again 
at Elmwood Grange. 

She, too, comes out to the veranda, and asks if 
the carriage will not soon come. I am all impa- 
tience to see my children again.” 

There they come, now,” exclaims Inda, and soon 
the carriage stops before the steps and Maud’s voice 
is heard. 

‘‘ Uncle Chester ! Mamma ! how do you do ? ” 

She springs to the ground without Herbert’s assist- 
ance, and rushes up the steps to her uncle, first, then 
to her mother, giving each a hug that nearly takes 
their breath away, and sets Mrs. Clyne’s chignon 
and collar awry. 

Maud, you impulsive child ! Herbert, my dear 
son, I am very glad to see you,” she says, in a mild 
voice, and kissing him. 

An observer might easily see which of her children 
was the favorite with her. 


At Elmwood Crranye. 


85 


“ Why, Dorance, my boy, I did not expect you 
until to-morrow! This is a pleasant surprise in- 
deed.” 

Chester Arnold shook the young man’s hand 
warmly, and looked with fond pride at the tall form 
and manly bearing. 

“ Inda, this is Dorance, of whom you have heard 
me speak so often. Miss Evertson, my niece, Her- 
bert.” 

Inda gave her hand in a frank, cordial manner to 
each of the young gentlemen, and turned to acknowl- 
edge her introduction to Maud. 

Dorance bowed politely to Mrs. Clyne, but a con- 
temptuous curl of the lip was the only sign she 
made, that she even saw him. She had not forgot- 
ten her old aversion to him, and Mr. Arnold’s warm 
greeting had stung her to the quick. 

How did you happen to reach here to-day, my 
boy?” said Mr. Arnold, seeing the young man’s con- 
fusion. 

•‘I found that, by catching an earlier boat, I could 
get through to-day, and without waiting so long 
at Wheeling.” 

“ He was at the depot wlien we got off. Uncle, and 
I knew him in a minute, though he is grown so tall 
and handsome.” 

“ Maud ! ” said her mother, sharply. 

“ Why, yes, he has grown quite manly,” said Mr. 
Arnold, with a smile at Maud. 

“ But come, get your travelling dust washed off. 
Dinah and Aunt Chlo’ have been in a fever for the 
last hour over the dinner.” 

He led the way into the house, and bade Inda take 


Maud up to her room. He showed Herbert to his 
door, and walked on to the end of the hall with 
Dorance, to the room that had been devoted to his 
especial use for several years. 

Half an hour later they were all seated at the 
dinner-table. 

“ Well, how does school progress with you all ? ” 
asked Mr. Arnold looking down the table at the 
group of young faces. “You first, Maud.” 

“ Oh, we have lots of fun, Uncle. Of course we 
have to study hard, but you know I love fun too,” 
she added as she saw the smile on her uncle’s face. 

“ Oh, yes, we all know, and I doubt not, the fun is 
about all of it,” sneered Herbert. 

“ And how is it with you, sir ? ” 

Herbert gave a boasting account of his rapid 
progress, and of his teacher’s favor, glancing across 
at Dorance as he spoke. 

“ I think Herbert is making good progress from 
what Professor Orlin writes me,” said his fond 
mother, and she too, cast a supercilious glance at 
Dorance. 

Mr. Arnold caught the look, and next turned to 
Dorance, and asked how he liked his Greek lessons. 

“ Greek ? ” said Herbert in amazement. “ Is he 
studying the languages ? ” 

“ He has been for nearly two years,” replied Mr. 
Arnold. 

Maud turned the conversation by asking after the 
slaves, with whom she was a great favorite. 

“ I must go down to the quarters and see them I 
Will you go too, Inda ? ” 

“ Certainly, I go very often.” 


At Elmwood G-ranye, 


87 


‘‘ Will you allow me to accompany you ? asked 
Herbert dropping his sneering tone, and gazing at 
Inda with admiration. 

If you wish to,” replied she in a quiet tone. 

Dorance, you too, want to see them, don’t you ? ” 
said Maud. ‘‘ Come let us all go together.” 

I suppose tlie blacks will be glad to see their old 
companion even if lie is getting so far above them. 
Maybe he intends to turn plantation schoolmaster, 
and educate all your slaves. Uncle.” 

Herbert’s disagreeable tones struck unpleasantly 
on the ears of all except his mother, and caused the 
warm blood to sweep over Dorance’s face and neck 
in a torrent. 

‘‘ I have not fully decided as to his future profes- 
sion,” said Mr. Arnold, giving his nephew a look that 
warned him to be careful of his words. 

The girls rose from the table and went for their 
hats and parasols. 

Herbert was standing in the hall alone when they 
came downstairs. 

‘‘ Where is Dorance?” asked Maud. 

‘‘ Gone to see his kitchen companions, I suppose.” 

‘‘ For shame ! Herbert. Dorance is a noble young 
man,” replied kind-hearted Maud, leading the way 
around the house to the servants’ quarters. 

Dorance stood shaking hands with a group of 
blacks, who showed their honest delight by broad 
grins, and emphatic nods of their woolly heads. Aunt 
Ohio’ stood apart from them, a dissatisfied look on her 
face as she watched the handsome young man, whose 
good-will made friends of all the rest. 

As Maud came up, her face full of pleasure at 


88 


Dor mice. 


meeting them after a two years’ absence, they gave a 
hearty cheer for ‘‘ Mis’ Maud,” and followed it by 
another for Mars’r Dorance.” It was the first time 
they had ever called Dorance by a superior title, and 
his face flashed and paled alternately. 

‘‘ That’s right, boys. One more for Master Dor- 
ance,” said Mr. Arnold, who had come around the 
house and stood laughing at the scene before him. 
He was greatly pleased at the new title they had 
given the young man, whose lot had been cast among 
them by a strange providence. 

Old Pete threw his straw hat in the air, and three 
deafening cheers rose from their throats for the 
young mars’r.” 

The noise attracted the attention of the other 
slaves, who came running from the cabins. At sight 
of Dorance and the girls they raised a cheer on their 
own account. “ Yer sees, we all has a sort ob lub 
fo’ Mis’ Inda, if we do see her ebery day,” said Sam, 
the coachman, in explanation, to Maud and Dor- 
ance. 

Maud’s hand was stretched out to the new-comers, 
and she and Dorance greeted each one with some 
expression of good-will. 

No friendly hand was stretched out to Herbert, 
who stood back, looking and feeling such disgust for 
the whole proceeding, that he showed the worst side 
of his selfish nature at that moment. 

He hated them all, and they all hated him. 


V 


Jealousy, 


89 


CHAPTER XIII. 

JEALOUSY. 

The next morning Maud was up and dressed a few 
minutes after sunrise! She was bound for a walk before 
breakfast. Opening the door between her room and 
Inda’s she peeped in, and, seeing that young lady 
awake, exclaimed : 

‘‘ Oh, I was just coming to wake you ! The sun 
lias just risen, and everything is so bright out of 
doors. Just look at the lake ! The wavelets fairly 
seem to dance in the sunlight. There, that sounds 
poetical, does n’t it ? ” 

Maud’s happy laughter echoed through the room, 
tlien she rattled on, “Do let me brush your hair. 
Shall I braid and tie it with a ribbon, or let it hang 
over your shoulders ? What beautiful hair you have, 
Inda, long and wavy, while mine hangs in taggy 
curls and won’t wave a bit when I shake it down. 
Then yours is what a poet would call a golden brown, 
while mine is only two degrees removed from red. 
Do you know you are very pretty ? ” 

“ No, I don’t know anything of the kind,” said 
Inda, laughing. 

“Well, you are, though. Just look in the glass 
before you, and see the difference between yonr 
dainty self and my fat cheeks and red complexion.” 

“ Why, Maud ! ” said Inda, again laughing at the 


90 


iJorance. 


girFs queer description of herself. ‘‘ I am sure your 
hair is a lovely auburn, and your eyes are as brilliant 
as stars, while your rosy complexion is much prettier 
than my pale one.’’ 

‘‘Well, we won’t quarrel about our good looks. 
Now put on your hat and gloves quickly, and let 
us go down to the lake.” 

They slipped down the stairs and out of doors 
with as little noise as possible. 

The cooks were chattering in the kitchen, and there 
was a stir among the negroes at the cabins, but all 
else was silent, except for the noisy feathered song- 
sters in the trees. 

The lake was a small sheet of water covering some 
ten or twelve acres, and varying in depth from four- 
teen to twenty-five feet. To the north lay a dense 
growth of timber, the pride of the plantation, and on 
the west and south were the meadow lands. To the 
east stood the house, and beyond that the park, while 
between the house and lake lay the shrubberies and 
lawn. It was a beautiful spot indeed, and one of 
Maud’s favorite resorts on her uncle’s place. There 
were some rustic seats under the trees, close to the 
water’s edge, and the girls sat down to enjoy the 
beauty of scene. After a few minutes spent in quiet 
contemplation, Maud’s tongue was loosened again, 
and Inda was laughing at her witticisms, when Dor- 
ance came through the shrubbery and joined them. 

Inda offered him a seat near her, and the three 
were holding an animated conversation when the 
breakfast bell rang. 

“ Good-morning, Uncle Chester and Mamma,” said 
Maud, dancing into the breakfast-room. “ How could 


Jealousy. 


91 


you lie in bed this lovely morning ? Why, we have 
been down to the lake for an hour or more.” 

“Maud, you wild girl! Don’t speak so loud. 
Brother, do you allow Inda to gallop over the wet 
grass this early in the day ? ” 

“ Why, yes I It is the best tonic in the world for 
them. Look at Maud’s cheeks, and even Inda has 
a faint flush. I see you too, are an early riser, 
Dorance I ” 

“Yes, sir; I always take a walk before breakfast, 
and this morning I found the young ladies out 
before me.” 

Mrs. Clyne frowned and bit her lip angrily. “ Her 
daughter taking up with a slave like that ! She 
would read her a lecture about it.” It mattered not 
one whit that Dorance was intelligent, and a 
thorough gentleman in look and manner. He was 
tainted with the curse of slavery, and if his birth was 
proven to be as pure and good as that of his master, 
he was still naught but a vagabond, who had been 
lifted above his proper level. 

While they were still at the table Herbert came 
down, in his most disagreeable mood, and took his 
place. He sipped his coffee, without tasting a mouth- 
ful of food. 

“ Herbert, are you sick? Can you not eat some- 
thing, my son ? ” 

“ No, mother ; I never eat any breakfast. Uncle, 
may I order a glass of sweet wine ? It is my medi- 
cine and food in the morning.” 

“You may have the wine, certainly, but do you 
mean to say, Herbert, that you take nothing but wine 


92 


Doranee, 


in the morning ? Zulu, a glass of wine for Her- 
bert.’^ 

Yes, Uncle ; I have no appetite for breakfast, and 
a glass of wine and some crackers last me until lunch 
time. Mother, I think I’ll give up school altogether. 
Studying does n’t seem to agree with me.” 

Have you consulted a doctor, my son ? I did not 
know you were ailing. Of course you will not go 
back to school until your health is better. YouAverc 
al ways delicate when a child.” 

‘‘ Don’t be alarmed, mother, this will set me 
straight.” 

Herbert drank oflP the wine at one breath, then 
leaned back in his chair and watched the others eat 
their breakfast. The three young people, whose 
healthy appetites had been sliarpened by their early 
walk in the morning air, ate with a zest. 

^‘Zulu, another piece of toast and an egg. I was 
awfully hungry. Herbert, you ought to have some 
of my good appetite. Madam Lange says 1 eat too 
much for a lady. J ust as though she knew how much 
I needed. Her own daughter eats nothing at the 
table, but nibbles fruit and cake all the time between 
meals.” 

How many girls are there in school this year ? ” 
asked Inda. 

“ Forty-six the last term. I wish you could go 
back Avitli me, Inda. Uncle, cannot she go ? ” 

“ Perhaps she can, my dear. I’ll examine into the 
morals and abilities of the school, and if I am satis- 
fied, she can go back with you. It will be lonesome 
for me when Dorance and Inda both go, but I and 
the slaves Avill be doubly glad to see you all again.” 


Jealousy, 


98 


Herbert sneered as he remembered the scene of 
the day before, and he shot a glance of contempt at 
Dorance at the mention of his returning to school. 
When the breakfast was finished the girls went up 
to their rooms, and spent the forenoon in looking over 
their wardrobes and books, and comparing their 
advancement in their different studies. 

They were nearly of an age, Inda being but four 
months older than Maud. She was tall and slender, 
while Maud was rather heavy built for her height. 

Inda was farther advanced in her studies and 
music, Maud’s fun-loving disposition not permitting 
of very close application. She learned easily and 
generally had good lessons, but they were as easily 
forgotten again. 

Inda bad to study hard for her knowledge, but 
once obtained, she kept it always. She was of a quiet 
temperament generally, but when once roused, her 
passions were stronger than Maud’s. She loved to 
pry into the mysteries of nature and science, while 
Maud hated a serious thought. Thus the two were 
formed to be firm friends from the very contrast of 
their natures. 

Dorance spent the first part of the day with Mr. 
Arnold, arranging his books, and settling up the year’s 
accounts. 

Herbert lounged on the sofa and talked with his 
mother. They all met again at the lunch table, and 
then the young people went for a sail on the lake. 
Dorance would have stayed behind, thinking it not his 
privilege to go with them, but the girls took hold of 
his arms and compelled him to accompany them. 
Herbert sneered as he watched the girls laughing and 


94 


Dorance, 


talking with Dorance, and a jealous hate filled his soul 
as he observed that Inda’s conversation was directed 
to him more frequently than to himself. The fact 
that Inda recognized the superiority of Dorance’s 
moral and intellectual nature over himself was bitter 
as death to his shallow, selfish mind. 

‘‘ Confound his impudence ! I could upset the boat 
and drown liim if it was not for my own and the girls’ 
danger. What business has a nigger to put himself 
forward like that ? If I could only get him into my 
own hands, I believe I would strip and whip him with- 
in an inch of his life. Oh ! how I hate him ! I don’t 
see why mother comes here to spend the vacations. 
If it was not for that girl and her fortune I would 
never set foot on this cursed negro plantation again.” 

Herbert’s enjoyment was spoiled for that day, and it 
was always the same. His selfish, jealous nature, em- 
bittered all the little pleasures of his life, and his 
mother’s flatteries only served to make him yet more 
so. Poor Herbert ! You are far more to be pitied 
than the meanest slave on your uncle’s plantation, yet 
you know it not. 


School Days. 


95 


CHAPTER XrV. 

SCHOOL DAYS 

The days and weeks slipped by in quiet enjoyment 
to all the household at Elmwood Grange, except Her- 
bert, who allowed no opportunity for insulting Dor- 
ance to pass by without leaving a sting. It had been 
a hard matter at first, for Dorance always to curb his 
temper, but Maud’s gentle words and kind manner 
were as oil on troubled waters, and Mr. Arnold’s quiet 
“ Never mind him, my boy. It is not worth listen- 
ing to,” always stilled the rising tempest in his breast. 
But for Herbert’s presence, the others would have 
found no draw-back to their pleasure during those 
long golden days when youth and happy spirits make 
any circumstances favorable for enjoyment. Dorance 
lost much of that conscious reserve, which was but 
the outgrowth of what he believed to be his inferior 
rank and place in life. 

Chester Arnold desired him to forget entirely, if 
he could, the untoward circumstances of his early life, 
and place himself on an equal footing with himself, 
with Maud and Inda, and with his fellow students at 
college, saying that a high moral character and man- 
ly intelligence, were the badges that marked a gentle- 
man any where in the world, where slavery had not 
raised the barrier of blood, higher than conscience. 
Maud and Inda had made him their daily companion 


in all their walks and rides. Each day they found 
more and more to admire and respect in the cultured 
young man who was so richly endowed by nature, 
yet who was seemingly only a slave by birth. 

At last the vacation was ended, and Inda went with 

Maud to the young ladies’ schooF at M . They 

bade a reluctant adieu to Uncle Chester, and to the 
long, pleasant days of care-free enjoyment at Elm- 
wood Grange. They dreaded the thought of the con- 
lined boundaries and narrow restrictions of the board- 
ing school, yet they knew it was the wisest course 
for them. Inda had an eager thirst for books, and 
Maud felt the need of a thorough education. Be- 
sides, she could ‘‘ always find some fun in any place,” 
she said, and perhaps her teachers and schoolmates 
might have added the same. Ah ! sunny-hearted 
Maud had yet to learn a little of the sorrow that 
darkens many lives, almost shutting out the sunshine 
of God’s love sometimes, where faith does not reach 
up and grasp the hand of our compassionate Father — 
the hand always stretched out to us in our woes, to 
guide us through the shadow and lead us up to the 
perfect radiance of His love if we will but take it 
and be led by Him. 

Dorance entered college and applied himself to 
study with renewed zeal, for lie felt a new impulse 
stirring within him that made hard, grinding work 
seem pleasant. And ^vorh in cur modern colleges, 
where the mental eats up the physical strength, and 
“ cramming ” is called by the gentle term studying^ 
means more than it expresses on the face of it. Her- 
bert had convinced liis mother that liis health would 
not permit him to take up his books again, so he had 


School Days. 


97 


gone home with her to spend his time in a round of 
fashionable gayety that taxed his strength far more 
tliaii all the studying he had ever done. Chester 
Arnold deeply regretted this step, for he firmly 
believed the young man’s character was not built on 
any firm foundation, and that, at his age, the allure- 
ments of city life would prove his ruin. He felt a 
thrill of pride whenever he thought of Dorance. He 
had gleaned enough from crazy Bess to convince 
him that the young man was of white parentage, and 
yet he feared to search out the mystery. Perhaps 
some disgraceful event or base crime was connected 
witli his birth. He felt he would rather never know 
anything further concerning his extraction, than to 
learn of any such thing in connection with him. 

He would tell Dorance his opinion, and give him 
the means of ascertaining the real truth, if he wished 
to do so, when he had finished his education, but, 
until then, it would only serve to distract his atten- 
tion from his books, and after all might prove noth- 
ing that would benefit him, in either his own or the 
world’s estimation. 

So the days passed into months, and the months 
into years, until Maud and Inda had completed their 
education, according to the popular notion of educat- 
ing girls. 

They wrote to Mr. Arnold to come and hear the 
graduating exercises, Avhich they assured him would 
be well worth his trouble, and then go with them on 
a visit to Maud’s home in Baltimore. 

As he had a very high regard for Mr. Clyne, 
Maud s stepfather, he availed himself of the girls’ 
invitation. He went to M ^ and found his nieces 


98 


Dorance, 


in a whirl of excitement over the all important ques- 
tion of dress. They had both grown from children 
to fashionable young ladies in those two years. Maud 
was a handsome girl ; beautiful.^ some called her. The 
round figure had lost the childish plumpness, and 
taken on the grace of curve and contour that is only 
found in the fully developed woman. She was of 
medium height and size, and the offensive red hair 
had changed to a beautiful auburn, and was worn in 
a heavy Grecian coil at the back of the shapely head. 
Her eyes were darker, and shone with a womanly 
lustre, while they still retained the spirit of fun which 
had been their chief characteristic in childhood. 

“ Maud is indeed a handsome woman,” thought 
her uncle, as he turned to survey Inda. There was 
not so much change in her, as in Maud. The face 
was the same, except for the more mature look in the 
violet eyes, and the deep subtle passion of soul that 
seemed to breath through every feature and speak in 
every act. There was an intensity of feeling under 
that quiet exterior that was not known to all who 
came in contact with her, and Avhich Maud, with her 
quick impulses and generous outflowing of spirit, 
often wondered at, yet failed to fully comprehend. 
The transparent fairness of her complexion was just 
relieved from paleness by the cherry ripeness of the 
lips and the faint flush that came and went in her 
face so readily, when she was stirred by any deep 
emotion. She was taller than Maud, and there was 
a dignity of manner rarely seen in one so young and 
unacquainted Avith life in its varied phases, and Avhich 
is the more admired that so feAV Avomen possess it 
at all. 


/School JJai/s. 


99 


Inda’s studious^ inclinations made her a favorite 
with her teachers, while her reserve held her class- 
mates somewhat aloof from her. Maud was voted the 
life of the whole school. 

Her pranks were always well played, and her witti- 
cisms were never pointed with satire. Had they left 
a sting in the hearts of her schoolmates, she would 
not have been such a general favorite. Was any one 
of them sick or in trouble, Maud was a faithful nurse 
and sympathetic comforter. But if a hard lesson was 
to be learned, then Inda was in demand, and generous- 
ly gave her help to any one who would honestly try 
to gain an insight into the subject. 

The graduating exercises were all that the girls 
had promised, and Uncle Chester said he was well 
repaid for his trouble in coming. 

Mr. and Mrs. Clyne were present to witness Maud’s 
triumph, and returned home in company with Uncle 
Chester and the girls. Herbert was away from home, 
visiting an old school friend in Cincinnati,” his 
mother explained, but in a private conversation with 
Mr. Clyne, his uncle gathered the sad fact that the 
young man was leading a dissipated, reckless life. 

‘‘ I have done all I can for him,” he added, “but he 
takes no interest whatever in study or work of any 
kind. I have im children of my own, and Herbert 
and Maud are to me as a son and daughter. I regret 
very much the course he is pursuing. I wished him 
to learn the technicalities of my own business, mer- 
chandise, but after a few weeks’ trial, he packed his 
valise and left for Ohio to spend the summer, he said. 
I feel confident he is spending his time in a round of dis- 
sipation. Maud seems to give me a daughterly affec- 


100 


Dorance, 


tion and obedience, but her brother has no regard for 
my own or his mother’s feelings. If you have any in- 
fluence over him whatever, I beg of you to use it at 
once, or he will be beyond the hope of reaching soon.” 

“ I am sorry to say I have none,” replied Mr. 
Arnold, with a sigh. ‘‘ And I fully concur with you 
in your course toward him. Any indulgence on your 
part would but place the means in his hands of be- 
ing yet more extravagant, and arrogant. Let us hope 
he will see the folly of his course before his habits 
are formed for life. He is laying a very unsafe foun- 
dation on which to build a true and noble manhood, 
and I feel verj^ anxious for him. Perhaps my only 
brother is better off in his grave, than he would be, liv- 
ing with such a son to trouble his life and blight his fond 
hopes for the future.” 

Maud came into the room, and interrupted their 
further conversation on the subject. She was some- 
what disappointed in not seeing Herbert. His over- 
bearing disposition was not pleasant to her, but 
Maud’s warm, loving nature forgave much in him 
because he was her only brother. 

The girls made their first appearance in society to- 
gether, at a reception given by Mrs. Clyne, and very 
lovely they looked in their rich evening dresses. 
When did youth and innocence ever fai} to look love- 
ly under favoring circumstances and embellished by 
all the little accessories of dress that wealth can sup- 
ply? Neither could be said to surpass the other. 
Maud was certainly the more beautiful of the two, 
but there was a nameless grace about Inda’s queenly 
presence, an attraction in the lofty dignity of soul 
that shone in the deep eyes, which compelled the be- 


School Days, 


101 


holder to turn and look again, and wonder just what 
it was that impressed the features and expression so 
indelibly on the memory. 

Maud was the more popular, however. Her gay 
laugh and witty replies made her the centre of a 
lively group always. She would turn off their shal- 
low compliments or small-talk with some witticism 
that provoked the mirth of all, while it did not 
wound the most sensitive among them. In da, on the 
contrary, would single out some one whose conversa- 
tion was agreeable to her, and sit for half an evening 
talking on some scientific question, or other like sub- 
ject, while the chit-chat of society annoyed her 
exceedingly. 

Three months rolled rapidly around, and Mr. 
Arnold and Inda began to speak of returning home. 
Maud wished to go with them and see ‘‘dear old 
Elmwood,’' she said, so she begged them to w’ait 
a few days longer, until her mother, who had been 
feeling indisposed for a few days, should recover her 
usual health. 

They were going home by the way of L , the 

place where Dorance was attending college, and 
Maud wished very much to see him again after the 
two years spent by both of them in hard study. But 
alas for our weak calculations, when placed in op- 
position to the divine will of Him who plans the 
future and measures all the events of our lives ! Mrs. 
Cljme grew rapidly worse, instead of better, and the 
family physician was summoned. One week — two 
weeks of wearing suspense, then she became delir- 
ious, and suspense was merged in a dread anxiety for 
the result. Herbert was telegraphed for, to come 


102 


Do ranee. 


i Hi media tely and not delay. The best counsel in the 
city was summoned, but all in vain. Death had called 
for his victim, and no amount of loving care could 
hold her back. Herbert had not yet come, and an- 
other telegram was dispatched for him. He came two 
days later, but it was only to weep over the coffined 
form of what had once been his fond, indulgent 
mother. The freed spirit had gone to meet its God. 
She had died thirty-six hours before his arrival. He 
had not received the first word at all, and had started 
immediately on getting the second dispatch. His 
grief knew no bounds, for Herbert had loved his 
mother as truly as his selfish nature would permit 
him to love any one. When the first shock was 
over, he fretted at the care she had had, complained 
that the doctors had not done their full duty, and 
finally ended by saying to liis uncle that Maud and 
his stepfather had never been over-considerate of 
her. Mr. Arnold pitied, yet blamed Herbert, for his 
weak, unmanly complaints, and soothed his grief as 
best he could. Maud was prostrated by the shock 
of her mother’s death, and Inda, for the first time since 
her own orphanhood, found herself in the presence 
of death, and the deep sorrow cornsequent on such an 
event. Her heart went out to Maud in tenderest 
sympathy. But how little it is we can give in 
that hour of suffering, when some dear one lies cold 
and still in the grasp of our common foe ! 

The funeral was over, and Mrs. Berenice Clyne 
slept her last, long sleep in the city of the dead, and 
over the home where she had so lately made one of 
their number, brooded that dread sense of loneliness 
and awe that so fills us with the realization of our 


School Dai/H, 


103 


loss, and of the late presence among us of that blacks 
winged messenger from the unseen shore, where ages 
roll by unnumbered, and eternity is the name given to 
the long, endless day. O dread mystery of death ! 
What must thy terror be to one wdiose eyes have 
been so blinded by this world’s joys and sorrows that 
they see not the beckoning hand of a gracious Sav- 
iour, when thy dark shadow shuts out all of earth, 
and opens not the door of heaven to the shuddering 
soul ! 

Mr. Arnold proposed that Maud should make her 
home at Elmwood Grange, and her stepfather left 
the choice entirely to her, of going with her uncle, or 
staying and presiding over his lonely home. 

But Maud’s answer was, ‘‘ No, papa ; my place is 
with you if you wish me here.” 

Mr. Clyne was touched by her tender thoughtful- 
ness for him, and her high sense of duty. He clasped 
her to him and kissed her, with tears in his eyes. 

‘‘ God bless you, my gii l, you are indeed my 
daughter. I do wish it. And j^ou, too, Herbert, T 
shall consider you my son, if you will but stay and 
share my home with Maud.” 

But Herbert declined, saying he had business in 
Cincinnati that would take him there again. So he 
bade them ‘‘good-bye ” telling them he would meet 
them all at his uncle’s, at Christmas time. He did 
not say what his business was, neither could they 
conjecture. 


104 


l>oranoe. 


CHAPTER XV. 

BESS. 

‘‘ Massa, massa, come quick ! Crazy Bess am 
dyiii’ suah, an’ she am callin’ all de time fo’ you.” 

‘‘Yes, Sam, I’ll come just as soon as I can dress. 
Tell her I’ll be there in a few minutes.” 

The summons came at midnight, rousing Mr. 
Arnold from his first sound sleep. He dressed as 
quickly as possible, and went to the cabin where the 
woman lay moaning her life away and asking every 
few moments for her master. She raised her hand 
as he came into the room, and motioned Sam and 
Dinah to leave her alone with him 

Mr. Arnold told them to go and rest, as he would 
watch with Bess awhile, then closing the door after 
them, he took his seat beside the bed. 

“ Are you in much pain, or is it your mind that 
makes you so uneasy ? he asked, as she fixed her 
great dark eyes on him, with a look of intense suffer- 
ing. 

“ Oh, Massa, I’s dyin’, an’ I mus’ tell yer about a 
dretful secret Aunt Chlo’ am keepin’ from yer.” 

The man’s heart gave a great leap, and he held his 
breath, for her next words. Would they reveal the 
mystery of poor Dorance’s birth ? The minutes 
seemed like hours to the anxious heart of Chester 
Arnold before the paroxysm of pain had passed, and 
Bess again spoke. 


Bess, 


105 


‘‘Massa, if yer had promised faithful to keep a 
secret an’ foun’ out yer war doin’ a bad sin by keepin’ 
it, would it be wicked to break yer word, ’speshly 
when yer war doin’ some one a harm by keepin’ 
still?” 

‘‘No, Bess; I think we ought to do what con- 
science tells us would be a good and kind act toward 
any one, in our dying hour. It is the sin of injuring 
another that ought to trouble us most, and not the 
breaking of a promise that should never have been 
given. What is it, my poor woman, that troubles 
you? I will promise to make everything as smooth 
for your last hour as I can.” 

For a few moments the woman lay with closed 
eyes, praying, then she asked, “ Massa, do yer re- 
member the time Aunt Chlo’ come here with Dor- 
ance in her arms ? ” 

“ Yes, I remember it well.” 

“ Well, she had run away from her master ’cos he 
had sol’ her gal off down South. She Avas berry han’- 
some, was Elsie, an’ the only one Aunt Ohio’ had 
lef. She was mos’ wild about it an’ cursed him 
orful. Two or three days arter that, she stole her 
mars’r’s chile an’ run away. She hid all day in the 
woods, an’ trabbled all night. It was a wicked thing 
ter do, but Aunt Chlo was jes’ crazy, that she was. 
She was boun’ to make a slave of Dorance, an’ when 
we foun’ her in the woods she was mos’ starved ter 
def, cos’ she had give mos’ all she could git ter eat, 
ter ther baby. She wanted it ter live an’ be made a 
slave way off in some udder State. Massa, Dorance 
is a white chile. He is Mars’ Alton’s boy. I can^t 
die an’ let him be a slave, when he’s allers been so 


106 


Doranee, 


good an' kind ler pore Bess. He’s jes’ like his 
father in looks, but he is kind an’ gentle like his 
mother was.’’ 

‘‘ What was Dorance’s father’s name, and where did 
he live ? ” asked Chester Arnold in an anxious tone. 

‘‘ Mars’r’s name was Wilbur Alton, an he live’ in 
Tennessee, somewhar near de place dey call Nash- 
ville. I liv’ thar when he was married, but I’s only a 
young gal then. He sol’ me afore Dorance was born, 
but I’d know him anywhar, he look so much like de 
Mars’.” 

Mr. Arnold took out a pencil, and tore a leaf from 
his memorandum, on which to write the name and ad- 
dress as near as he could get it from her. He felt 
he had the threads of the mystery in his own hands 
at, last, but he would prove the truth of what he had 
lieard, or might yet hear. His hands shook so that he 
could hardly write, and his face was very pale. The 
dying woman then went on to relate incidents con- 
nected with her own life at Alton plantation, and it 
was with difficulty she could be brought back to the 
subject of Dorance’s abduction. 

She described her master’s appearance and spoke 
also of the young mistress. She said Master Alton 
was a very rich man, and had a great many more 
negroes than were on Mr. Arnold’s plantation. 

Finally she wandered from the subject altogether, 
and the scenes of her own troubled life took the place 
of all else. She would call piteously to the husband 
who had been torn from her so ruthlessly, sometimes 
shutting her ears to keep outthesoundof her infant’s 
wailing cry as it passed from her arms to the cold 
embrace of the river. Her master rose and admin- 


Bess. 


107 


isttjred a sedative, and as she grew quiet he took her 
hands in his own, and prayed that peace might mark 
her passage from this life to that beyond. She seemed 
to be listening, for a smile broke over her features, 
and she repeated fragments of the prayer after him. 

She fell into an easy slumber, and the man still sat 
by her, thinking intently of what he had heard con- 
cerning the boy who was so like a son to him, until 
the first, faint light of day began to glimmer through 
the little window. Then he noticed that the hands 
he still held had grown cold and clammy. 

He rose and bent over the still figure on the bed. 
It would always be still now, for the restless soul had 
fled, and Bess was at peace. 

Mr. Arnold opened the door and passed out into 
the cold morning air. He summoned a couple of the 
women to attend to the body, left an order for the 
plantation carpenter to make a neat coffin and paint 
it by evening, then went to the house and took his 
accustomed bath. His mind was too full of thought 
to permit of sleep just yet, so he went for a walk in 
the fresh air. 

On his return he found Inda standing in the sun- 
shine, picking the dead leaves from some choice 
geraniums. She looked up on his approach, and 
greeted him in her pleasant way — the way that 
belonged to her individually. 

Then she noticed the disturbed look in his face, and 
asked whether he met with bad news, or an accident 
during his walk. 

“ Not bad news, my dear, only rather sad. Bess is 
dead. She died early this morning after a few hours’ 
illness. She sent for me, to comfort and with pray 


108 


Darance, 


her, poor woman. I have to go away this morning, 
for a week or two, and would like you to see that she 
is buried decently this evening.” 

“I will. Uncle. I feel almost glad that poor Bess 
is at rest.” 

You will not feel nervous at being left alone here, 
will you ? I may be gone for two weeks, I cannot tell.” 

Not in the least. What would make me nervous, 
Uncle, with so many protectors ? ” laughed Inda. 

After breakfast, when she had bidden her uncle 
good-bye, and watched the carriage out of sight, she 
took her hat and went down to the cabins. 

All was still and orderly on account of the presence 
of death among them. 

. She walked on to the end of the row, where stood 
the humble home of the dead woman. Pushing open 
the door, she went in, and lifted the sheet from the 
still face. The long black hair had been combed smooth- 
ly back, and the form was dressed in a decent shroud 
of muslin. Inda laid a bunch of roses on the still 
breast, replaced the covering, and went out again. 
Jim was painting the coffin, and she stopped to watch 
him at his work. 

“You have made a very nice coffin, Jim,” she said, 
knowing he expected a word of praise for tlie job. 

“Yes, Miss Inda, dat am a good job ob work an’ 
I tink I may say of paintin’ as well. Ain’t it black 
an’ shiny tho’?” and Jim rubbed his hands in great 
satisfaction. 

“ Yes, it is very nice. When it is thoroughly dry, 
carry it into the cabin and lay the body in it. I will 
come this evening and see the burial.” 

Just as the sun hid his face iu the western horizon, 


Bess. 


109 


that evening, poor Bess was buried, and her master 
was speeding on his way to prove the truth of her 
dying words. 

Was it but the raving of a sick person, or would 
he find, as Bess had said, that Dorance was of good 
birth, the offspring of cultured parents ? He firmly 
believed he would. Men of Dorance’s stamp never 
spring from an uncultivated root. His high sense of 
honor is the result of generations of careful culti- 
vation ; his native dignity of soul, the out-cropping 
of many transmissions of self-respecting men and 
women. 

“ After all, blood will tell^ and I believe has told 
truly in your case, my boy,” he thought. 


ilo 


Ihrance* 


CHAPTER XVL 

THE MYSTERY CLEARS. 

Mr. Arnold’s heart throbbed painfully, as the 
carriage drove up the long avenue, and stopped at the 
<loor of Alton Hall. 

Why, what can this mean ? ” he asked of tlie 
driver, as he saw the closed doors and shutters on 
the front. Drive round to the side of the house 
and see if there are any signs of life there.” 
j The noise of wheels on the gravel brought half a 
dozen negroes from somewhere in the region of the 
orchard, who stared in stupid wonder at the carriage, 
then at Mr. Arnold. 

Is your master at home ? ” he asked of one. 

‘‘No, sail. Him done gone clar to de tother side ob 
de worl’.” 

“ Gone where ? ” he again asked. 

“ Gone ’way ober de oshun, Mars’.” 

“Do you mean he has gone to Europe?” 

“ Yah, dat am jes’ it, sah.” 

“ Where is your overseer? ” 

“ Him down to de cane mill.” 

“ Then show me the way there.” 

He found the overseer, an intelligent Yankee, who 
explained that Wilbur Alton had been travelling in 
Europe for his health, for nearly a year. 

He learned of the second marriage, and inquired 
whether any children were born of the last union. 


Ill 


The Mystery Qlearif. 

“ Yes, sir ; there is one living, a little girl two or 
three years old, who was blind from her birth.” 

‘‘ May I ask in what part of Europe they are travel- 
ling at present ? ” 

‘‘ I received a letter about two months ago from 
Versailles, but they were intending to go to Switzer- 
land in a few days. Further than that T am unable 
• to say.” 

Mr. Arnold was determined not to go back without 
unravelling the mystery, if possible, and he next asked 
if there was not a son by the first marriage, who was 
now a young man. 

No sir, not living. I have heard there was a son 
who was stolen from his cradle by a crazy slave, and 
was supposed to have been drowned in the river with 
her, as no trace was ever discovered of either of 
them. I was not here at the time, but had no reason 
to doubt the story, as it was commonly talked of here 
on the plantation. Why do you ask, sir? ” 

“ I cannot state my business in full, but it is an 
important matter concerning Mr. Alton himself, and 
were he here, he would fully cooperate with me, I 
am sure. May I see the family portraits ? I will not 
detain you long.” 

The overseer hesitated for a moment, then led the 
way to the house, and producing a huge bunch of 
keys, opened the door to the long hall, and led the 
way up the flight of stairs. Another key opened the 
large library and disclosed to view the portraits of 
several generations of the Altons. 

“Wait a moment,” said Mr. Arnold, “and see 
whether I can single out the present master.” 

“ This is the one, is it not? ” 


112 


Doranee. 


Yes, sir ; and these are his wives. This, on the left 
is the present one.” 

Again he found it was as Bess had said. Dorance 
strongly resembled his father in form and feature. 
Chester Arnold might almost have believed the 
shadow of his protege hung before him, instead of a 
stranger whom he had never seen, and between whom 
and himself rolled the mighty Atlantic. He had 
proof enough already to satisfy liim that Dorance was 
the son of Wilbur Alton. He looked for some 
minutes at the face on the canvas, and wondered 
whether he had done all that he could do, under the 
circumstances, for the gifted son of this proud man, 
not knowing who or what the son was. What would 
be the feeling of that father when he knew his lost 
son was found, and was a true type of the Altons, so 
far as could be judged by the pictured face. He gave 
his name and address to the overseer, with a request 
that any intelligence of Wilbur Alton should be sent 
to him at once, as his business was urgent. 

When he was again in the carriage he drew a 
deep, full breath, and a smile of exultation lit up his 
features. His boy was cleared of any taint of dis- 
grace and of the leprosy of slavery. His hoy? Yes, 
he was his son, almost as truly as though the same 
blood coursed through their veins. 

Arrived in the city, he dispatched a letter to Wil- 
bur Alton, at Versailles, telling him there was good 
reason to believe his son was found, and would prove 
all his fondest ambition could desire. He gave an 
account of his visit to Alton Hall, and ended by say- 
ing the son was then at college, and if all went well, 
would finish his course in two months time from that 


The Mystery Clears. 


113 


date. It was a long letter, giving every detail, so 
that no doubt could harrow the mind of Wilbur 
Alton as to the truth of the assertion. 

Then the question arose in his mind, Would it 
be best to tell Dorance at once, or wait a little time ? ” 
He did not want to bring any new excitement into 
the already overworked life of the young man. 

Eight days later, Mr. Arnold surprised Inda by 
walking into the back parlor where she sat at work 
coloring some engravings. 

“ Why, Uncle Chester ! You home again ? I had 
not looked for you yet. I am very glad, however ,as 
Maud is coming the first of the week. She will go 
with us to see Dorance graduate.” 

Maud came, and found life at Elmwood much the 
same as it had been when she first came there, a child, 
and ran about the place with old Uncle Pete, her fa- 
vorite among the slaves. 

His grotesque manner and amusing stories were 
just as fresh now as when she first heard them. She 
and Inda had much to say to each other after their 
separation of nearly a year. Maud’s sorrow had 
softened her, and developed some of the finer points 

in her nature. She made one of their party to L , 

to see Dorance and hear the graduating exercises. 

He had carried the first honors of his class by very 
hard study, and he looked pale and thin for the hours 
of overwork. 

Mr. Arnold’s warm hand-clasp and quiet words of 
commendation amply repaid him, he thought, for any 
extra exertion he had been compelled to make. 

But it was Inda’s words he listened for so eagerly 
— ^the light in her eyes and the thrilling touch of her 
8 


114 


Dor mice. 


hand, that made his pulse beat quicker tliau an the 
honors his teachers and class had heaped upon him. 
Not that he hoped for anything more than this. He 
could look at, and worship the stars, he thought, 
even though they shone as coldly on him as on the 
rest of the world. She had been the inspiration of 
those last years of hard study. To gain her highest 
respect, he^ the slave, whom she might order to do 
her bidding, had been his incentive through the 
long laborious hours when tired nature almost re- 
fused to support the active brain. And what thought 
Inda, as she watched him carry his honors with all 
the dignity of a cultured, self-respecting man ? Not 
arrogantly, nor in a haughty manner, like a self-right- 
eous person, but calmly, and with an easy bearing 
that told of no unusual effort for self-control. 

“ What a splendid man he is,” she thought : 
“ Uncle Chester is right in his belief that he has 
inherited his gentlemanly qualities and uprightness 
of principle.” 

Mr. Arnold had not yet told the girls that he had 
discovered the young man’s true name and parent- 
age. They could only conjecture as he had done. 

A week later they were all home again, and Elm- 
wood plantation had never looked half so beautiful 
to Dorance as now. 

They went all over the place, revisiting the old 
favorite haunts. They rowed on the lake, or sat 
under the spreading elms, and talked of that sum- 
mer, now more than three years past, when Inda’s ac- 
quaintance with them began. Herbert’s name was 
not often mentioned by them. The giils avoided it 
because of the unpleasant memories it might stir up 


The Mystery Clears, 


llD 


in Dorance’s mind, and lie himself had no wish ever 
to recall any incident connected with the arrogant 
young man. 

Herbert’s wild course caused his sister many anx- 
ious hours. He had not visited her at his stepfather’s 
home since their mother’s death, and seldom wrote to 
her. When he did, his letters were brief, and in com- 
position savored of the low companionship of the 
second-rate club-room. 

What his business was in Cincinnati they had no ' 
means of knowing, as he never spoke of it, and Maud 
feared his time was spent in drinking and gambling, 
to the exclusion of any better occupation. 

Five weeks of happy companionship for the house- 
hold at Elmwood Grange, and then Herbert came to 
disturb their quiet enjoyment of those beautiful 
autumn days, by his selfish, uneasy disposition. He 
had taken a fancy to see the old place once more, he 
said, and so had tumbled a change of clothing into 
his travelling bag, shut up his rooms in the city, and 
started at once. Herbert had not changed for the 
better since his mother’s death. There were marks 
of dissipation on his face, and his manners were rough 
and uncouth. His sister saw this with a sad heart. 

What would be the end if nothing occurred to turn 
him from his present course ? ” was her tliought, as 
she noted the burning thirst that would not be 
quenched by anything but wine or brandy. His 
bleared eyes and bloated face told all too truly of the 
constant use of the fiery beverage, and she could guess 
of the low associates such a habit engendered, the 
boon companions, that clung to him like leeches, 
sucking from him the means of keeping up their 


116 


Dorance, 


carousals, and finding great pleasure in degrading him 
to their own level. 

“ Oh, Uncle, will nothing hold him back from utter 
ruin ? Must my only brother sink so far below my 
respect that I could wish he had never been born ? 
Better that poor mamma should die, than live to 
know Herbert would go down to a drunkard’s grave, 
and disgrace us all as he is doing.” 

But any remonstrance on the part of Maud or 
her uncle only made the headstrong young man 
^^^gry, and he bade them finally to let him alone, or 
he would go back again to the city, where he could 
follow his own course without any one to interfere. 
‘‘ Did they suppose he was a child, needing to be told 
what was good for him, and what was not ? He 
drank wine and brandy, to be sure, but not to excess. 
And what man of spirit did not ? He did not pro- 
fess to be a saint, like their cherished darling, Dur- 
ance, and thanked heaven he was 7iot like him, al- 
though it might gain him the favor of all at Elmwood 
Grange.’ 

After that they said nothing further to him about 
his habits, but Maud’s pillow was wet with her tears 
many times when her reckless brother was sleeping 
off the effects of drunkenness. He made life an\ - 
thing but a pleasure for them all, and Dorance had 
to put a strong check on himself sometimes. Not 
that the petty insults stung him so keenly, except in 
the presence of the young ladies. It was bitter in- 
deed to have this insolent puppy taunt him with his 
position and tainted blood before Maud, the friend 
who had always respected and encouraged him, and 
worse than all else, in the presence of the one woman 


The Myetery Clears, 


117 


whom he loved, nay, worshipped. It galled him to 
have his own rights as an honorable man trampled 
on by this unprincipled, shallow-brained fop, who 
could boast of nothing but his good birth, and who 
presumed on Inda’s forbearance because of her friend- 
ship for his sister. It was evident to them all that 
Herbert’s admiration for Inda was deepening into a 
warmer feeling, and that he was seeking to win her 
favor. Dorance had no fears of his being successful, 
but it hurt him, nevertheless. Just why, he could 
not say, even to himself. He loved her without the 
hope that she would ever deign to look upon him 
with any other feeling than that of respect, possibly 
of friendship — scarcely that even. 

Dorance was growing morbidly sensitive to his 
position. To know that by nature and education he 
was the equal of any of them ; to love, and feel that 
he had the power to win the love of Inda in return, 
while but the accident of birth, something over which 
neither of them had any control, kept his lips sealed, 
and forbade him the privilege of seeking her com- 
panionship even, was very hard. Oh, bitter fate ! 
Why was he ever born ? What little niche had God 
destined him to fill, after endowing him with intelli- 
gence, and capability equal to that of any whom he 
had ever yet met. It was not egotism in him, only 
a summing up of his own powers. 

Chester Arnold saw the struggle in Dorance’s 
mind, and was puzzled to know just what was the 
best course to take in regard to him. He had thought 
to keep his knowledge to himself until he should 
hear from Wilbur Alton, but if matters kept on grow- 
ing worse between him and Herbert, he would be 


118 


JDurattcc, 


compelled to tell him, and let him act for himself on 
an equal footing with his rival and enemy. 

Herbert could not then boast of his superior birth 
and blood. Besides, he had wished to see whether 
Inda could conquer her pride without the certain 
knowledge that Dorance was other than she already 
believed him to be. Uncle Chester had read his 
niece’s mind deeper than Dorance had done, and 
knew pride and affection were fighting a battle 
there. It was something more than respect that 
made his companionship pleasant to her, and he 
hoped to see love conquer what he termed a false 
pride. 

Chester Arnold had lived long enough to value 
the real worth of a person, instead of any pride of 
lineal descent. How much better if all the world 
would do the same ! What is the cast-off greatness 
of dead and gone generations, without moral 
principle in each individual soul ? Ought we to value 
the setting more than the gem ? And that is what 
the world does oftentimes in regard to the priceless 
soul. It goes for naught if it be not embellished by 
wealth and position. This is human judgment, how- 
ever, and not God’s estimate of us. We are all read 
aright by Him, and valued according to our merits. 
His judgments are more merciful than man’s. 

Dorance avoided Heibert as much as possible, and 
the young ladies missed him in their long strolls 
through the woods and fields. Herbert rowed the 
boat when they went out on the lake, — Herbert 
lounged in the parlor in the afternoon, while Dorance 
wrote or read in the library. 

Maud and Inda sought Dorance out sometimes 


The Mystery Clears, 119 

and insisted on iiis going wiih ihem, in spite of Her- 
belt’s sneers. 

Maud’s gentle nature strove in every way possible 
to smooth over her brother’s rudeness, but Inda felt she 
hated him, and would defend Dorance, with spirit, 
against his enemy’s unjust allusions. She did not 
stop to question her own heart as to why she resented 
any indignity offered to Dorance ; she was only con- 
scious of a painful tenderness toward him when she 
saw liim striving hard to ‘repress his honest indig- 
nation. 

One warm afternoon found them all together in a 
little vine arbor at the lower part of the lawn, near 
the lake. 

Herbert had stretched himself at full length on a 
rustic seat, and was whistling in a dreary undertone. 
Dorance and Maud were looking at a curious shell 
one of them had picked up near the lake’s edge, 
while Inda sat apart from them,- watching the two 
heads bent close together over the shell in Dorance’s 
palm, listening to his explanation of the tiny creature 
that had once inhabited it, as she swung her garden 
liat by the strings. 

Do come and see it,” said Maud. “ It is very 
curious.” 

Inda came, and, kneeling down at their feet, laid 
her arms across Maud’s knees and examined the 
shell, which was unlike any they had ever before 
picked up in their explorations about home. Sud- 
denly Herbert turned and saw them, and some evil 
impulse lit his eyes with an angry light. Something 
in Inda’s looks or position, he could not have told 
what it was himself that stirred his wrath so deeply, 


120 


Dorance, 


but all the passion of his evil nature glowed in his 
eyes and rang in his voice, as he said, “ Are you 
kneeling to your low-born lover. Miss Inda? A 
very romantic picture you make. I’ll swear 1 ” 

Inda went on talking as though she had not heard 
him, but Dorance’s blood was boiling, and he laid a 
hand on her shoulder in a tender, protecting way, 
as he gave a warning look at Herbert. 

The unconscious action stung Herbert to the quick. 
Springing up, he caught Inda by the arm, and drag- 
ged her to her feet, saying in a hoarse voice : 

“ Take your hand off her, you black hound ! Off, I 
say.” 

Inda confronted him with white face, and eyes that 
seemed to emit sparks of fire. 

“ Stand away from me, you insolent puppy I ” she 
commanded. ‘‘Wait, Dorance; don’t strike him. You 
would only soil your hands by touching him. He 
shall apologize for this.” 

She caught Dorance’s arm and held it close, in 
her excitement. Maud, too, had risen and laid a de- 
taining hand on his shoulder. She had never seen such 
a look on Dorance’s face before. It was the white 
heat of honest rage, of trampled pride, of insulted 
manhood. His whole frame shook with the effort at 
self-control. 

Herbert saw it all, and drove his poisoned shaft 
yet deeper. 

“Apologize for what?” he asked. “You are in 
love with that nigger, and I only speak the truth 
when I say it. Why don’t you tell him so, and end 
his torture ? or did you not know he had dared to 
love you ? a slave^ to love his master’s niece J 
He is deserving, is he not?” 


The Mystery Clears, 


121 


Yes, lie is deserving of 11)3' highest respect^ aixl 
he has it. You deserve only 1113^ contempt, and you 
have that, in full measure. Come, Dorance, we will 
never willingly come into his presence again.’’ 

She turned away, compelling Dorance to go with 
her, and they walked down to the edge of the lake. 
She was too angry to speak, and stood in silence for 
some time, looking out over the water, with unseeing 
e3"es. The young man b3^ her side was pale as 
death. 

He would have given years of his life to know 
Herbert’s venomous words had an iota of truth in 
them. Did this queenl}’’ girl feel one particle of that 
passion that was eating out his heart? Yes, he be- 
lieved she did. Faint, though it might be, he had seen 
a look in her face at Herbert’s words, that told him 
of a smouldering fire beneath the quiet exterior, that 
is only lit by love, such as he craved with his whole 
soul. Could he have looked into her thoughts at 
that moment, he would have found all that his most 
ardent affection desired. Yet pride would have its 
sa}", and rose in fierce rebellion at the thought that 
this man, whom she loved, as she had never loved 
any one before in her life, was of obscure birth, per- 
haps of mixed blood. She covered her face with her 
hands, and burst into bitter weeping. Dorance 
thought it was, only anger that caused it, and he said 
in a tender, sorrowful voice, ‘‘ Do not mind it. The 
insult was intended for me. He does not like to see 
me enjo}" 3’our sweet presence, even for a moment.” 

Dorance, Dorance, it is not that ! Wh3" could he 
not let us be blind to the real truth when we were 
happy in our ignorance of each other’s thought ? ” 


122 


Jjorance. 


Inda ! ” came in sharp tones from Dorance. 

Do you know what you are saying, my girlie ? 
O my God! don’t tempt me further than I can 
bear.” He walked away from her, and sat down on 
a rustic chair, too weak with his emotion to stand 
longer. Yet through all the pain that filled his soul 
at that moment ran a thread of thrilling joy, an ex- 
ultation that was strange and new to him — the knowl- 
edge of requited love. Her pride might overcome it, 
for who was he, that he should have and hold this 
most precious of all God’s gifts to man, a woman’s 
love ? But he would be true to himself, and speak 
no words that either of them might afterward regret. 
He would not take an unmanly advantage of her 
weak moment. 

Inda came and stood behind him, laying her 
hands on his bowed head, saying in a brave voice, 
“Let us forget it, Dorance, forget that we have 
read each other’s soul for one moment. This day 
must be forgotten.” The words ended in a sob, and 
turning away, she walked back to the house. She 
met her uncle on the step, and his quick eye discerned 
the conflict in her heart. 

“ All right, my boy,” he said to himself, “ you are 
winning the day in spite of 


The Temptation, 


123 


CHAPTER XVIL 

THE TEMPTATION. 

Herbeet Arnold ground his teeth in rage as he 
saw Inda walk away with Dorance. He had never 
felt so full of evil jealousy as he did at that moment. 
He felt that he hated Dorance with a tenfold worse 
hatred than ever before. 

Maud saw the clinched hands and heard his mut- 
tering, but failed to catch the import of the words. 
Her brother’s look and action filled her with alarm. 

“ Herbert, will you let your jealousy run away 
with your reason?” she said. ‘‘If you love Inda, 
go to her and tell her like an honorable man should, 
and bear the consequences in the spirit of a gentle- 
man. Do not act in this revengeful way.” 

“ She would refuse me, and you know it ! She 
loves that nigger better than all the world beside, 
and he dares to love her. But I’ll conquer him or 
kill him ! Yes, I will ask her to be my wife ; and let 
her refuse me if she dare ! Her lover’s life shall pay 
the penalty. I believe I hate them both ! ” His eyes 
gleamed with a baneful light as he spoke, and he strode 
out of the arbor, taking the path round the upper 
end of the lake, to the woods. Maud shivered, and 
half rose to follow him, but sat down again and 
leaned her head on her hands, too miserable for 
tears. She was filled with a dread foreboding. She 
knew Inda would refuse her brother’s offer of mar- 


124 


Doranee, 


liage, and she feared the effect on him. Oli, if he 
would only go away again ! Certainly he was not to 
be trusted while in that mood. 

She went to the house and sought her uncle’s pres- 
ence, telling him all that had happened, and begging 
him to use his influence with her brother. Chester 
Arnold paced the floor in deep thought for a few 
moments, then took his chair again, and told Maud 
all the story of Bess’s deathbed confession, and of his 
verification of her w^ords. 

"‘I had thought to keep it a secret until I had 
heard from Dorance’s father,” he said, ^‘but perhaps I 
had best tell him. Herbert’s bitter jealousy may lead 
to greater mischief than I can foresee. I will see 
your brother to-night, and tell him, at least. He may 
.act in a different manner toward Dorance, when he 
knows wlio he is, and his position. I think he hates 
liim now because he feels his superior mental powers, 
yet believes him only a slave by birth. Herbert must 
change his course, or leave here. I cannot have the 
peace of my home life broken up entirely by him. 
Do you think Inda loves my boy, Maud, well enough 
to marry him without knowing anything further of 
his parentage ? I had wished to see her conquer her 
pride first. It is the one grave fault of her otherwise 
noble, generous nature. It was her father’s inherent 
trait before her.” 

‘‘I cannot tell. Uncle ; she is very reserved in mat- 
ters pertaining to herself, you know. But still I 
think she truly loves him. Herbert believes so, at 
least, and it makes his jealousy of Dorance, all the 
more bitter.” 

“Well, Maud, we will try to adjust matters. Her- 


The Temptation. 


125 


belt’s suit is hopeless, and the sooner he sees it the 
better for all parties concerned. He will probably 
soon go away and leave us in peace once more.” 

That evening Chester Arnold told Herbert the 
strange story of Dorance’s abduction, and of the 
proud aristocratic father who would soon claim his 
son. Herbert sat in sullen silence, but it would be 
impossible to describe the feeling with which he 
learned the news of his rival’s good luck,” as he 
termed it in his own thoughts. When his uncle 
finished speaking he turned away and left the room, 
still without a word. He took the direction of the lake, 
where he walked back and forth for hours, until com- 
pelled, from sheer weariness, to sit down. Herbert 
fought the demon in Ids breast with all the strength 
of his feeble nature, fought it, and yet was conquered 
by it, because he had never learned to control self ^ — 
was not master of his own spirit. Poor Herbert was 
reaping the harvest that his own stormy passions had 
sown, and that his mother’s weak indulgence had 
fostered through all his years, not counting on this 
hour when he should need all his strength of soul to 
meet and fight this strong temptation to an evil deed. 
There had been no preparation for this great moral 
battle in all Herbert’s life, no girding on of the 
strong armor of self-mastery, no strengthening of his 
moral spirit by a practiced self-denial. Never yet 
did a weak yielding to every impulse give a soul the 
moral strength to meet and vanquish the great giant, 
“Temptation,” any more than a milk diet gives to 
the full grown man the physical force he needs to 
fight his way, and defend himself and his rights 
against an aggressive foe. 


126 


Dorance, 


Ah, mother, give your child a strong moral prin- 
ciple, and teach him to govern his own spirit, to 
conquer his own evil propensities, if you would save 
him when all the hosts of hell, in the form of 
mighty temptations, are fighting for the mastery of 
his soul ! 

“ Oh, why do the fiends tempt me like this ?” mut- 
tered the miserable man. “ It is not because I love Inda 
better than any one else. She is not to be compared 
to my little Elda. But to 3 deld my ground to that 
man because he presumes on his superior intelligence 
and thinks himself equal to a born gentleman, 1 will 
not. What is this bug-bear story of his being some 
aristocratic sprout, the stolen son of some proud 
family? Did Uncle Chester think to impose it on me 
I wonder? I will not believe one word of it. It is 
only some trumped-up affair of that sharp nigger’s. 
Yet he has made Uncle Chester believe it, and pos- 
sibly he may succeed with Inda, in spite of her 
cursed pride. How I hate him, yes, and Inda too ! I 
will give her a chance to accept or refuse me, and if 
he dares to say nay to my suit, her darkey lover's 
life shall be the price of it. Thank God, Elda does not 
know what a black heart I have ! The knowledge 
of it would kill her. She is the only person in all 
this world who believes in me, and whom I care for in 
the least. I could go back to her to-morrow and 
never come near this infernal place again, if it was not 
too much like being beaten by that darky, Dorance.” 

Herbert drank heavily on going to bed, and the 
next morning found him moody and weak in • body 
and mind for his intemperate indulgence. He kept 
his room most of the day, eating nothing but drink- 


127 


The Temjjtation, 

ing continually. He appeared at the table in the 
evening, and his distracted look plainly told of the 
suffering he had undergone. He deigned neither 
word nor glance to Dorance, but was affable toward 
Inda and his sister. As they rose from the table, he 
took Inda’s arm and asked her to go out on the 
veranda with him. As he saw a refusal in her face 
he rudely compelled her to go. 

‘SStand still, don’t be afraid of me, I’m not going 
to murder you,” he said in an angry voice. You 
told m'e yesterday, I must first apologize to you, for 
my rudeness, before ever addressing you again. Well, 
1 apologize, and ask you to be my wife as well.” 

Inda was pale as death and she trembled with fear, 
for she saw Herbert was scarcely conscious of his 
words, and his manner was wild and reckless. 

The light from the open hall door streamed out 
and showed her white face to the man who stood 
waiting for an answer to his strange proposal. 

Dorance had seen the wild, restless light in Her- 
bert’s eyes, and a fear crossed his mind, as he saw 
him seize Inda’s arm and lead her out of the door, 
that he meditated some mischief. He knew lie had 
been drinking hard that afternoon, and he stepped 
out of the window, on to the veranda, and screened 
himself from view with the thick vines. He had 
heard every word of Herbert’s rude speech. 

Why don’t you answer me ? ” he again said. “ I 
ask you to be my wife, and you look as though Satan 
himself stood before you ! ” 

Inda hardly knew what she replied, but Herbert’s 
words brought her back to a consciousness of what 
he was saying. 


128 


Dorance. 


“You refuse me because you love Dorance. I 
have known it from the first day I came here. Is it 
not so? Tell me in plain words, and I will go away 
from here and never trouble you again. Do you say 
you love him ? ” 

“ Herbert Arnold, I have tried, for 3^our sister’s 
sake, to give you all the respect a lady ought to give 
a gentleman, but you make it an impossibility. I 
have never given you cause to think I cared for you 
in any other way than as Maud’s brother, yet you 
come to me with such a question ! B3" what right do 
you ask it ? It is enough that 1 tell you I can never 
be your wife.” 

“ It is not enough, and I have the right to ask you, 
when I see you squandering your affection on a 
worthless man, who is, or ought to be, my uncle’s slave. 
I tell you, I will go away from here if you say in 
honest words that you do, or do not, love him. It is 
your only chance of ridding 3^ourself of my hateful 
presence. Will you say you love him ?” 

For a moment Inda hesitated to reply to his insult- 
ing speech. But if he would go away and leave them 
all in peace, she would answer him. Was it that 
only which made her hesitate, or was there a struggle 
in her own heart betwixt pride and affection ? Her 
voice was clear and firm, as she replied, and her 
words were distinct to the ears of the man standing 
in the shadow of the veranda. 

“Yes ; I will say it. I do love him, and am not 
ashamed to own it, for he is all that is noble and true 
in man.” 

“ There, that is enough ! Go into the house. I 
would have your own word for it. I will not trouble 


The Temptation • 129 

you by my presence many days longer, I promise 
you.” 

He laughed in a harsh, discordant voice, and push- 
ing her toward the steps, walked away into the 
shadow of the trees. Inda went straight up to her 
room, and sat down to recover herself. She felt re- 
lieved to think his offensive attentions to her would 
cease now, and, if he kept his word, they would not 
be disturbed by his disagreeable presence at Elm- 
wood much longer. She met him the next morning, 
and his manner toward her was more polite and easy 
than ever before. He seemed to have forgotten the 
events of the preceding evening. Inda thouglit pos- 
sibly he had taken too much wine, and was under its 
influence so far as to have been unconscious of his 
words. She half hoped it was so when she saw his 
improved manner the next day. 

Perhaps her uncle had given him some sound ad- 
vice, and, for once, it had taken effect. Uncle Chester 
and Maud also noted the great change in him, and 
thought it was due to Inda. But Dorance read 
deeper than the surface, and knew it was only the 
calm before the storm. He kept a constant watch 
on Herbert Arnold. He feared to trust Inda alone 
in his presence. The steady look of hate in his eyes, 
the set resolve of the lips, told of a purpose that would 
not be put aside. Wliat it was, Dorance could only 
wait and see. He believed the man was not himself, 
was suffering an attack of \vhat is known as the 
drunkard’s mania, and that some deed of violence 
would be the end, either of Herbert himself, or of 
some attempt on Inda’s life, or his own. There was 
no hatred in Dorance’s heart toward his enemy, but 
9 


130 


Dorance, 


a compassionate pity for his weakness. He confided 
his fears to Mr. Arnold, but after a day or so further 
of Herbert’s good behavior, his uncle lost his fears, 
and thought his nephew had at last resolved to 
change his course. Doran ce said nothing more to 
any one on the subject, but he never relaxed his 
vigilant watch over his enemy, and at all hours of 
the night he went to Herbert Arnold’s door, and 
listened for any sound of him. He knew that, hours 
after all the household were asleep, the unsteady 
footfalls went back and forth, back and forth across 
the room, and sometimes sleep failed to visit the 
burning eyes at all, and Dorance knew he was not 
the only one watching out the long hours of the 
night. 

Poor, misguided Herbert ! Those years of dissipa- 
tion were coming back to mock him now with their 
unimproved opportunities. They haunted his con- 
science, and made every effort at self-control futile 
The brandy-weakened nerves could only be toned 
with the fiery beverage, and the over-stimulated brain 
took on frightful fancies and made his life a torment 
to him. Oh, the horror a drunkard endures, wlien 
the awful agony seizes him ! Herbert fought back 
the demon with all the strength of his will. He dis- 
continued his “night-cap,” as his club companions 
termed the nightly dram, because he felt his brain 
would not bear the strain of the stimulant, and he 
dreaded those long, lonesome hours when all the 
house was asleep and there was nothing to distract 
his attention from himself. Yet he made up for his 
small self-denial in tlie morning. There was some- 
thing pitiful to Dorance, in the eager way with which 


The Temptation 


131 


he tossed off glass after glass of wine, trying to 
quench the burning thirst that had gathered strength 
during the night. Finally Herbert felt that he was 
losing all power to control his appetite or his actions, 
and he announced that he was going back to the city 
the next evening, that is, he would take the evening 
train. Maud’s eyes filled with tears, yet she was glad 
to hear him say it. She had not gotten over her un- 
easiness, that something would occur to rouse his 
temper again. She knew his life in the city, exposed 
to all sorts of temptation, Avas not what he needed 
to make him a better man. Still, she feared his 
hatred toward Dorance would break out in some act 
of violence. Maud s heart was very sore for her 
brother, yet she felt powerless to help him. 


132 


Dorance, 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

ON THE LAKE. 

“ Let us all go for a sail on the lake this afternoon, 
as it is Herbert’s last day with us,” said Inda, as they 
left the lunch table. 

‘‘ Oh, yes ; that will be much pleasanter than sitting 
half asleep in the house,” replied Maud. “ Shall we 
go, brother ? I wish this delightful October weather 
could last all the year. Come, Dorance.” 

Maud laid her hand on Dorance’s arm, and walked 
down to the water with him. Herbert made some 
trivial excuse about not wanting to go, but Inda re- 
peated her request in an entreating tone, so he took 
his hat, lit a cigar and said, “ Well, I will go with 
you in the small boat, but not with the others. Will 
you go with me alone? ” 

‘‘ Certainly, if you had rather we would go in a 
separate boat. I supposed you would wish to be with 
Maud, as it is your last ride on the water.” 

My sister will not care very greatly about my 
company, and I prefer not to be in the same boat 
with her companion. Besides, Maud’s ceaseless 
tongue annoys me to-day. You can hold your 
chatter quiet for five minutes, but it would kill her 
to have to do so.” 

Inda passed over the rude speech in silence, and 
began talking of something else. She would try to 


On The Lake, 


133 


make this last clay of liis stay as pleasant as possible 
for him, and for Maud’s sake also. 

Herbert threw away his cigar, and launching the 
boat, turned to Inda, who had sat down on the bank. 

“ Are yon not coming with me ? ” he asked. 

Yes, in a moment. I am nearly out of breath 
from my rapid walk.” 

Maud, looking up, and seeing the black frown on 
her brother’s face, said, ‘‘ Why, Herbert, you look 
like you were going to commit a murder ! You’ll 
frighten us all.” 

She spoke lightly, and without thought of lier 
words, but Herbert flushed angrily, then paled, and 
bit his lips. 

‘‘ Perhaps I am. It is the murder of all my hopes 
of years past, though.” 

Inda rose instantly and stepped into the boat, but 
not before Dorance and Maud saw the tears on her 
lashes. That sentence of Herbert’s hurt her more 
than his rudeness had done. 

‘‘Are you going alone? Well, we will wait and 
take a stroll until you come back,” said Maud, to 
cover Inda’s confusion. 

Dorance set his lips together, with a great effort to 
keep back the words that welled up from his heart at 
the rudeness of his enemy toward the woman of his 
love, — of both their affections, — or why would Herbert 
have asked Inda to be his Avife ? Such an unmanly 
display of temper — ^the spiteful wounding of her feel- 
ings, angered Dorance more than anything else could 
have done. He stood watching the boat glide over 
the smooth water in silence, until Maud came near 
him, and spoke. 


134 


Dorance, 


Doraiice, don’t quite hate him, iC you can help it. 
His temper is hard to bear with, I know. Herbert 
can never even win Inda’s respect. Her toleration 
of him is more than he deserves. 

Maud sighed, and Dorance clasped her hand with 
a warm, sympathetic pressure. How much I wish 
Herbert was like this man,” thought the sad-hearted 
sister. 

At that moment a piercing scream rang out over 
the water, and they saw Tiula rise up in the boat and 
stretch out her hands toward them. But Herbert 
caught her and dragged her down again, and then 
thej^ were both struggling in the water, and the boat 
was seen drifting away from them, bottom side up. 

“ Oh, save them ! Save them ! ” gasped Maud ; 
but Dorance had already tlirown off his boots and 
coat, and was in the water swimming toward them. 
Maud shrieked for help, then dropped on the ground 
in helpless terror as she saw two or three of the slaves 
running toward her. She had just strength enough 
left to point out over the water to the three strug- 
gling forms, and then the world turned black, and her 
head fell forward on the sand. Dorance reached the 
place where he had seen the two go down together, 
and waited a moment, until they came up to the sur- 
face. He grasped Inda firmly round the waist, and 
tried to loosen Herbeid Arnold’s hold on her, but 
in vain. He clung to her arm and looked at her 
protector, with a deadly gleam in his eyes. Dor- 
ance did not lose his presence of mind, but mo- 
tioned to the slaves for help, and exerted all his 
strength to keep his own and Inda’s head above the 
water. Could he hold out a moment longer with that 


On The Lake, 


135 


murderous hand dragging her down ? Yes ! the boat 
was nearlj^ up to them ! He grasped its side and 
held on, while the men pulled Inda up into it, tlien 
raised himself out of the water, and with their help, 
clambered in also, just as Pete caught his enemy^s 
hand and helped him in. Dorance raised Inda’s 
head and leaned it on his breast, then chafed her 
Jiands and temples until the boat was rowed back to 
shore. He picked her up in his strong arms as he 
might have done a child, for excitement lent him 
double strength, and stepping from the boat, placed 
her on a rustic seat under the trees. Maud’s con- 
sciousness came back to her, and she opened her eyes, 
to see her brother standing near her, watching Dorance 
with an ugly sneer on his lips. Inda, whose senses 
had not entirely left her, raised herself up and saw 
him also, and a shudder passed over her from head to 
foot. She clung to Dorance, and dry, hard sobs came 
fiom her white lips. The sight seemed to turn Her- 
bert Arnold’s wrath to frenzy. See her hug tlie 
black dog to her heart ! Can’t you return the com- 
pliment? You won’t live long to have the chance, I 
can tell you. Better use your time. Or did you 
want to put your coat on first ? Phne dress becomes 
most niggers.” 

Dorance raised his arm to sti ike but Inda caught 
and held it down. 

‘'Go, murderer,” she said, “and God forbid I 
should ever see your face again. Sam, call my 
uncle at once. The sight of that fiend drives me 
mad.” 

“ I will go, as you bid me, but you shall see me again, 
and that black devil won’t be there to interfere,” 


136 


Dorance, 


Herbert shook his clenched hand at Dorance, turned 
on his heel, and walked toward the house. Maud 
stretched out her hand to him, but he pushed her 
away with such force that she would have fallen but 
for Pete’s intervention. Inda bade the slaves all 
leave her, and turned to speak to Maud, but the poor 
girl had gone after her unhappy brother. 

“ Dorance, oh, Dorance ! ” said Inda, in a choking 
voice, what can I say to thank you for saving me 
from a murderer’s hand ? I should be lying at the 
bottom of the lake now but for your timely help.” 

She dropped on the grass at his feet, and kissed 
his hands, shivering, as the recollection of the terrible 
struggle in the water came to her. Dorance raised 
her up and clasped her to his breast. 

Let me have the right to hold you to my hungry 
heart one moment, and I ask no other thanks for sav- 
ing you from his hand. Let me kiss you once as I 
might do, if no wide gulf separated me from you, and I 
had won the priceless jewel of your love, and I’ll go 
away from j'ou, blessing you for your sympathy to- 
wards one who might have been a man^ had he been 
a free agent.” 

He kissed her hair and face. He held her clasped 
to liim for one happy moment, then placed her 
on the bench, and, turning away, looked out over the 
water, his face deathly white and rigid as if cut from 
marble. 

Chester Arnold came running to them, and in a 
frightened voice, asked what had happened. Inda 
told him in as few words as possible, adding her 
entreaty that her uncle would send Herbert away at 
once. 


On The Lake, 


13T 


Uncle, I cannot stay under the same roof with him 
another night. Neither my own, nor Dorance’s life 
is safe with him. He told me out there, that Dorance 
should not live to see to-morrow’s sun unless I would 
promise to be his wife ! Oh, Uncle, you will send 
him away at once, will you not ? ” 

“ Yes, I’ll send him to the State’s prison ! No, no, 
I cannot do that either. He is my brother’s son, but 
he shall never again set foot on Elmwood plantation. 
Come to the house and get on dry clothing, both of 
you, then go into the library any wait for me there. 
I’ll send him away. I’ve an idea.” 

Chester Arnold trembled with excitement as he 
entered the house and asked Sam where Herbert 
was. 

In his room, sah. He went right up dar de fust 
thing when he come to the house.” 

Maud sat crouched on the stairs, sobbing in a heart- 
broken way. 

“ My poor girl,” said her uncle, ‘‘ go to your room 
and stay there. I’ll be easy on your worthless brother 
for your and his father’s sake.” 

He led Maud to her room, then went on to Her- 
bert’s door and knocked. 



138 


JJo ranee. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

BAFFLED AGAIN. 

Twilight was deepening into darkness in the 
long Library where Dorance and Inda awaited the 
coming of Chester Arnold. They heard his step on 
the veranda outside, still he came not. An hour and 
fifteen minutes had passed since he gave his stern 
command to Herbert, but still no step had passed 
tlLough the hall on its way downstairs. One hour 
was the time I allowed him,” he said to liimself, 
as he looked at his watch for the twentieth time, and 
resumed liis weary walk. 

Another was waiting to hear that step also. The 
poor broken-hearted sister, sobbing there in the 
corner, waited to say good-bye to the guilty brother 
whose hand had been so near taking a life, and that 
the life of the woman he loved. 

Oh, my poor brother ! ” she moaned. Her uncle 
came to her side and tried to comfort her, but words 
only brought her tears afresh. 

Dear niece, don’t sob like this. He is not worth 
a tear. I will go now and see whether he is ready. 
The carriage has been waiting fifteen minutes for 
him.” 

He went up the stairs to Herbert’s room but found 
it vacant. The door was open and his baggage stood 
ready to be carried down, but Herbert himself 
was not there. 


Baffled Again, 


189 


Has he left the house without seeing his sister, 
the scoundrel? I could hand him over to Justice 
without a pang, but for her sake.’’ 

He descended the stairs again, and was about to 
look into the parlor, when the report of a pistol in 
the direction of the library caused his heart to stand 
still with fear. Maud, who had heard it also, sprang 
into the hall and seized his arm. 

‘‘What is it? What is it?” she asked. At that 
moment Herbert dashed past them, and out of the 
door into the fast-falling darkness. One awful shriek, 
and poor Maud lay in a senseless heap on the floor, 
Chester Arnold gathered her in his arms, and hasten- 
ed to the room from which the sound had come. 
The sight that met his eyes filled him with horror. 
Doran ce Avas rising from the floor, with Inda clasped 
to his breast. Oh, my God . she is dead ! ” he 
said in a hoarse voice. Placing Maud in a chair and 
going to the lounge where Dorance had laid his still 
burden, he opened her dress, and laying his hand on 
her heart, called for the slaves, who came crowding 
into the room, to bring him water. 

“She still lives,” he said turning to Dorance. In 
a peremptory tone of voice he ordered the room to 
be cleared. 

“ Sam, go for a doctor, and ride for your life ! 
Here, Ohio’, help me to get off her dress, until I find 
the wound.” 

“ She has given her life to save my worthless one. 
Oh, that it had been me instead ! ” said Dorance, who 
knelt in agony beside the lounge. 

Dorance, Master, she have jes’ fainted. Gimhne 


140 


Dorance, 


the water,” and Aunt Ohio’ dasned it over the face 
and bare breast of the unconscious girl. 

Are you sure she is not hurt?” 

Yes, Master, I is suah.” 

And are you, too, unharmed?” he asked of Dor- 
ance. 

Yes, she saved my life.” 

Then God be praised that it is not worse ! ' 

“ How did it happen. Master?” asked Aunt Ohio’. 

Never mind now, wait until these girls show 
some signs of returning life. Oh, Maudie, my dear 
girl, your trouble is a hard one to bear.'* He raised 
Maud and carried her upstairs to her own room. He 
feared Maud’s injury was the greatest of all. He 
called Zulu to help him to get her into bed, but she 
was so frightened she could be of little service. 

Oh Lor’, Massa, am Miss Maud shot too? ” 

‘‘ No, she is not hurt ; only a fainting fit. No one 
is liurt. You stay here until the doctor comes. 
Wet her face with this camphor, and rub her hands 
and feet. I will be up in a few minutes again.” 

He descended to the library, just as the doctor 
bent over the sofa and placed his finger on Inda’s 
pulse. 

After a brief examination, he applied some strong 
restorative, and ordered the slaves who had again 
crowded to the door and windows, away. Go, all 
of you but Aunt Ohio’,” said the master in a stern 
voice. 

‘‘ Now, Doctor, examine thoroughly and see that 
there is no wound. We have had a would-be assas- 
sin in the house this evening. J pray God there is 
no harm done ! ” 


Baffled Again, 


141 


There is no wound whatever. She is in a deep 
swoon. The shock may make her nervous and weak, 
but she is unharmed. See, she is reviving now.” 

“ Then come with me, Doctor, and you, too, Ohio’. 
I fear poor Maud has received a shock from which 
she will not so soon recover.” 

He led the way to Maud’s bedside, and the doctor 
examined her pulse and placed his hand over her 
heart, and he began to fear life was extinct. Long 
and faithfully did he work to restore consciousness, 
but his efforts were only rewarded by a faint show of 
life, just enough to tell them she lived. Midnight 
came and passed ; but still she lay in that deathlike 
stupor, happily unconscious of the terrible drama that 
had been enacted that evening, and in which her 
brother had played so desperate a part. Toward 
morning a pale, sorrowful face appeared at the door, 
and asked how Maud was. 

‘‘Why, Inda, child, go to bed? You are not fit to 
be here.” 

“Uncle, tell me, how is Maud? I cannot goto 
bed while she lies like that. Doctor, will Maud die ? ” 

“ I trust not,” replied the physician, “ thougli I 
cannot say. She has received a terrible shock. Now 
go to bed, or you will be unfit to nurse her, and I 
greatly fear she will need your ten derest care for 
many days to come. Swallow this, then go down- 
stairs and rest on the sofa if you will not go to bed.” 

Inda took the soothing draught and went down to 
the library again. Dorance met her at the door, 
drew her into the room, and placed a rocking-chair 
for her. 

How is Maud ? Is she conscious? 


142 


Doranoe, 


“No; she is lying like one dead,” replied Inda. 
“ Oh, how terrible it all was ! I heard the noise 
behind me, and saw the villain pointing at your head. 
My only thought was to drag you down out of range 
of the fatal ball. Thank heaven, I was quick enough. 
Had I not been, you would be lying dead now. Oh, 
will I ever get it out of my mind? ” 

“ Inda, why did you imperil your precious life to 
save mine ? Would you have done it just the same 
for any one else, I wonder ? ” 

“ I do not know, Dorance. My only thought was 
to save you. I know I would rather have received 
the ball myself, had you been harmed by it.” 

“ Inda,” said Dorance, with a voice that trembled 
witli emotion, “ my darling, why should I strive to 
repress my love at such a time as this. You know 
it already. It can do no harm for me to be happy 
for one little hour in your love, even though I am a 
slave by birth. God knows I have a freeman’s soul 
within me. Except for the sorrow it has caused 
poor Maud, I cannot regret the events of the last 
twelve hours, since it has shown me this phase of 
your noble nature. I would ratlier have gone to the 
bottom of the lake with you than live to see you the 
wife of such a man as Herbert Arnold. I firmly 
believe he is on the verge of delirium tremens, and is 
not accountable for what he did.” 

“ I had rather believe it was that, than any affec- 
tion for me, that led him to the act of trying to take 
your life and mine.” 

“ No, Inda, you have done liim no wrong. His 
own evil nature and intemperate liabits did it all. 
Let us forget him if we can. To-night I am a man. 


Baftled Again. 


148 

free to love you. Tomorrow, I will be only a slave on 
your uncle’s plantation. Don’t think I shall forget 
that., even though I act insanely to-night. My free 
papers can never remove the barrier that separates 
us, nor my mental powers lower it so that we may 
step across it and join hands. The God who created 
us and joined our hearts in an indissoluble union has 
yet divided our lives. We must each forget our 
words again to-morrow.” 

“No you will not forget, neither will L I love 
and honor you above all other men. That makes us 
equal.” 

“ Inda, how can you humble your pride to me like 
this ? ” 

“ Because I love you,” she said. “ I had to conquer 
my pride, as you know, but my love was stronger.” 

She laid her arm about his neck, and tears filled 
her eyes. Dorance did not speak, for his heart was 
too full. He sat in silence, her head resting against 
Ids shoulder until she dropped asleep. The draught 
that Dr. Howard had given her was taking effect. 
He put her gently back in the chair, then brought 
the sofa cushions and placed them under her head. 
Drawing her shawl closely around her, he kissed her 
lightly and went upstairs to Maud’s room. 

There was a slight change, the doctor said. She 
was muttering to herself and there was some fever. 

“ How is your patient ? ” asked Mr. Arnold with a 
smile. 

“ Inda is sleeping, sir,” replied the young man, 
blushing like a school girl. 

“ You are a good nurse, my boy, and your kindness 


144 


horance^ 


shall be rewarded. Perhaps your skill will be needed 
for more serious work, ere long.” 

I shall be glad to be of service, sir.” 

Yes, I know, but for to-night you may stay with 
Jnda. Your fates seem to be strangely interwoven.” 

Dorance paced the library, back and forth, until 
sunrise, stopping now and then to drop a stealthy 
kiss on the sleeper in the chair. 

He remembered that night, long years afterward, 
as one of the happiest as well as saddest he had ever 
spent. The happiest, because he had won the price- 
less jewel of a woman’s love, to wear in his heart for- 
ever, — the saddest, because he knew he could never 
claim her until the mystery of his birth was cleared 
away. Not then, unless it could be proven that his 
name was as honorable, — his blood as free of taint as 
her own. 


Ketrihiition^ 


145 


CHAPTER XX. 

RETEIBUTION. 

The sun rose and set on the following day and for 
many succeeding days, and still Maud raved in the 
wild delirium of brain fever. She would call in 
piteous tones for her brother, and beg him not to 
strike her. The scene on the lake would come before 
her mind, and she would hide her face in the bed- 
clothes to shut out the sight. Every care that could 
be was taken of her. Inda and Dorance, as well as 
Uncle Chester, were untiring in their efforts to re- 
lieve her distress. But it seemed the events of that 
afternoon had burned themselves into her brain. At 
length the doctor said there would be a change for 
better or worse before the next day. 

“This is the twelfth day, and there must be a 
change in her symptoms one way or the other. Miss 
Inda, I wish you to watch with her to-night. You 
may have some one with you, but not a whisper must 
there be in this room. Perhaps Dorance will stay 
with you. He has proven himself an efficient nurse 
during these days. You will stay with Miss Everson 
to-night?” 

Dorance bowed his head in reply, and after a few 
more directions as to the medicine, Dr. Howard took 
his leave. Mr, Arnold followed him out to his car- 
riage. 


10 


146 


I)orance, 


‘‘ Is there the slightest hope, Doctor, that she will 
live to see to-morrow?” 

“ I cannot tell that. If she wakes from her sleep 
conscious, she will live, with judicious care, but, if 
she grows restless and begins to wander again, then 
I have no hope whatever. I have done all I can do. 
Let us hope and pray for the best result of this 
night’s watching. Good-evening, sir.” 

Chester Arnold gave orders that the house should 
be kept very quiet. 

Sam, I leave it to you to keep everything and 
everybody quiet for to-night,” he said, addressing 
the one who generally made all the disturbance. 
Then he betook himself to the upper hall, where he 
sat until after midnight. He could endure the sus- 
pense no longer, and softly pushed open the door to 
the sick chamber. Dorance Avas seated at the foot of 
the bed, while Inda sat by the side of the quiet, mo- 
tionless sleeper, her face pale and her hands locked 
together, every nerve strained to its utmost tension 
in the dread suspense* 

“ Will she live ? Was there any change, and was it 
for the better ? ” were the torturing questions that 
haunted her mind. Once she thought she must be 
dying. The fluttering breath had nearly stopped. 
She rose noiselessly and put a spoonful of the medi- 
cine to her lips, and motioned Dorance to her side. 

He too saw the change in the bluish pallor of her 
face and neck, and the great sweat drops on her 
brow. Was she dying? 

Presently she stirred, and opened her eyes with a 
look of intelligence in them. The Avatchers held their 
breath. Slowly, as a Aveary child might do, she closed 


Iletrihution, 


147 


them again, and turned her face away, whispering 
their names, and dropped to sleep once more. Inda 
leaned heavily on Dorance’s shoulder and tears wet 
her cheeks. Maud’s breathing became regular and 
soft again, and they resumed their places of watching. 
Thus Mr. Arnold found them. He motioned Dorance 
to him, and in a whisper asked whether there was any 
change for the better. 

“ I think so. She was awake about half an hour 
ago and recognized us.” 

Thank God ! ” exclaimed Mr. Arnold in a husky 
voice. “ My dear boy, my almost son, pray that 
Maud’s life be spared to us.” 

He turned away again, and Dorance returned to 
his post by the bedside. Morning came and found 
them all with glad hearts, for they knew now she 
was past the crisis and would live. The doctor reas- 
sured them when he came. He told Inda to rouse her. 

Maud, dear Maud ! ” Slowly the eyes opened 
and looked up with the light of reason in them. 

Do you know us, Maud ? ” 

“ Yes, I know you. What a long night it has been ! 
I am so tired.” 

Inda took the glass and spoon from the doctor’s 
hand, and gave her a cool, soothing draught. The 
sick girl drank it eagerly, then turned her head, and 
in a moment was asleep. 

One week passed, and Maud was slowly regaining 
her strength. 

When the memory of her brother came to her, her 
paroxysms of grief threatened the destruction of 
all their hopes. Her uncle soothed her as none 
else could do. Not even Inda’s sweet sympathy 


148 


iJoi'cmce, 


could calm her like Uncle’s Chester’s gentle words. 

One afternoon, when Maud was pronounced out of 
danger, he sent for Dorance and luda to come to the 
library. All trace of the assassin’s work had been 
removed. 

The broken window tlirough which the murderous 
ball had passed, the torn curtain, all, had been re- 
paired, and the curiosity of the negroes had been sat- 
isfied. But an inkling of the truth had lodged in 
their minds, and they all felt a superstitious horror 
of the library. 

Dorance and Inda met at the door and went into 
the room together. Mr. Arnold looked old and 
careworn. Herbert’s reckless course had troubled 
him greatly, and now, Maud’s illness and the deep 
sorrow that shadowed her young life added to his 
burden. 

Sit down, children,” lie said, using the old famil- 
iar title lie had given them years before, and which 
still came naturally to his lips sometimes. I have 
some strange news for you.” 

He took a letter from his breastpocket, opened it 
and said; ‘‘First I’ll tell you, Herbert Arnold is \ 
dead. He was seriously injured in a railway ac- 
cident near Cincinnati, and died in that city after 
live days of remorse and bodily suffering. I received 
this letter several days ago, but thought best to say 
nothing of it until Maudie was out of danger. Fll 
read you the letter.” 

“St. James Hotel, Cinctnnatt, 

“ October 21st, 18 — 

Uncle Chester : 

^ I’ll use 110 unnecessary terms, for I know you feel no 


V 


Itetribution, 


149 


affection for your worthless nephew. How could you, when 
I have never done one act to deserve your respect, and yet, 
I beg you to forgive me and forget me. I am near death’s 
door and must deal honestly with you and my God, in 
these my last hours. 

I was injured internally by the South Bridge disaster, 
and have but a few hours yet to live, and perhaps ’tis best 
for me, as well as you and my sister, that I am called away. 
Intemperance was robbing me of my reason. I have felt it 
for some time, and feared the awful fate of a drunkard when 
the tremens holds him in its grasp. I was suffering it that 
last week at Elmwood, and it only needed Inda’s refusal 
of my offer of marriage to drive me wild. I learned after- 
ward that my murderous attack had failed the second time 
also, and I thank God now for his merciful intervention. 
I do not know why I hated so noble a man as Dorance, 
and I ask his and Inda’s pardon, as I hope God will for- 
give me. And you, my dear uncle, can you forgive me, for 
my father’s sake — my sister’s sake ? Oh, God ! why have 
I lived to cause you all this sorrow ? There is but one 
person in all the world who will remember me for any 
kindness I have done, and that is my wife, who is here 
with me now. I met her three years ago in this city, and 
though she was only a poor orphan, yet I loved her better 
than I have ever loved any living person. She is pure and 
good, and worthy of any man’s best affection. She knows 
nothing worse of me than that I was rather wild. I trust 
she may never know how utterly worthless I have been. 
She has never received other than kind words and actions 
from me. She is my lawful wife. Ko one can cast any 
blame on her fair name, for she is all that is sweet and 
womanly. I have one child, a boy of eighteen months. 
May he never hear of his father’s sin, and I pray Heaven 
to defend him from such a life as I have lived. 

Uncle, I ask you to watch over my wife and child. 
They will be safe under your protection, You will lov# 


160 


JJorance, 


them for themselves. They are worthy of your affection 
although T am not. Give the enclosed note to my sister, 
and tell her to forget me if she can. When this reaches 
you I will be beyond the need of earthly sympathy. 

That you may all forgive me as I hope God has for- 
given, is the last wish of 

“Herbert Arnold.^’ 

Chester Arnold laid the letter on the table, and 
wiped the blinding tears from his eyes. Inda sobbed 
audibly, and Dorance rose and walked to the window 
to hide his emotion. 

“ Let us all forgive as we expect to be forgiven. 
Dorance, you and Inda have most to forgive. Will 
you remember his faults in mercy? Dorance, my 
boy, can I carry your pardon, with this letter, to the 
poor sister, upstairs ? 

“ Yes, sir, fully and freely.” 

“ Thank you, my dear boy,” said Mr. Arnold with 
a glow of admiration in his eyes for the young man’s 
noble spirit. “ He that forgiveth much, to him much 
shall be forgiven. And you, Inda, you too can for- 
give him now that Dorance does, can you not ? ” 

She could make no reply. She held out her hand, 
and her uncle read her answer in the sorrowful up- 
turned face. 

He gathered up his letter and with slow step 
passed from the room and up the stairs. He had a 
hard task before him. He stopped outside Maud’s 
door, and silently asked God s help for her, ere he 
opened it and went into the room. She sat by the 
window propped up with pillows, gazing in a listless, 
dreary way, out on the richly tinted autumn scene. 
A soft, hazy atmosphere shrouded the distant hills 


Retrilmtion, 


151 


and woods, wliiio the higli w ind blew the leaves in 
little clouds of color past her window, or sent them 
scudding across the lake in Avaves of brown and 
scarlet and gold. 

Maud herself felt like a dead leaf before the wind ; 
just as helpless and dreary, only that these pretty 
leaflets had fluttered their happy lives out, while she 
must live and sorrow on. 

She looked up as the door opened, and her uncle 
came into the room Avith the open letter in his hand. 
He drew a chair up to her side, and asked her Avhether 
she was able to hear some neAA^s. 

don’t knoAv. What sort of neAVS is it? Is it 
anything from my unhappy brother ? ” 

‘‘ Yes ; it is a letter from Herbert.” 

“ Uncle, I would rather knoAv he Avas dead than 
living such a reckless life. What Avill be the end of 
it all?” 

‘‘ Maud, the end has come. Herbert’s last hours 
Avere truly repentant, the only good part of all his 
life.” 

“ Then he is dead ! Oh my brother ! ” said the 
stricken girl in a broken voice. 

‘‘ He died repentant, Maud, and it is better so. 
Can you regret it ? ” 

‘‘No, no; but he was all I had left to love of my 
OAvn. Father, mother, brother, all gone ! It is hard 
to have no one left to love of your own blood.” 

“Yes, my dear Maud, it is hard. God alone knows 
hoAV hard, yet he helps us bear it. The troubled 
Avaves haA^e gone over ray head also, but I have found 
my Father’s hand Avas guiding me all the while and 
kept me from sinking. He will keep you, too, my 


152 


Dormice , 


dear. Besides, Herbert left you something better 
than himself to love. His little innocent child, and 
his gentle wife.” 

‘‘ Herbert’s wife and child ! ” 

‘‘Yes, Maud. He had a sweet, gentle wife and a 
little son, svho have kept him back from utter ruin 
he says. I’ll read you his letter. Can you bear it ? ” 

Astonishment checked her grief for a while, and 
she motioned her uncle to read it. He read it through 
to the end. She listened, with hot tears coursing 
down her wasted cheeks, and, reaching for the letter, 
she kissed it reverently. 

It was a message from the grave of her erring 
brother, sent to her in mercy, she thought. When 
she found voice to speak, she begged her uncle to go 
for Herbert’s wife and baby. 

“ I want them with me, uncle. Herbert’s son shall 
not grow up to be a hardened, wicked man if my love 
can save him from it.” 

“I’ll find and bring them to you, just as soon 
as you are able to have them,” he said. “ Now, 
I’ll leave you to read your letter. Don’t grieve un- 
necessarily, my dear. Remember it is better as it is.” 

He kissed her tenderly and went out. 

She opened the letter, but the blinding tears hid 
the words from her, and she bowed her head and 
wept bitterly. When she could, she read the words 
Herbert had penned in his last suffering moments 
to her : 

‘‘ My Dear Sister, 

“ When you read these lines, I will be lying in my 
grave. May they speak to your heart as your sinful 
brother’s memory could not do without them. Oh, my 


Retrihution, 


153 


sister, will you forgive me for all my unkiiidness to you, 
and will you love my little sinless child for the sake of the 
tie that binds us, the tie of blood ? I believe Grod has 
been merciful to me in my suffering. How I have suffered 
in body and mind, words would fail to tell you. Again, I 
ask 3'ou to love my young wife and child, and care for them. 
Never tell them the curse I have been to you all, but let 
them remember me in kindness, and keep my innocent son 
from falling into his father’s sin of intemperance. 

I am growing too weak to write, so farewell, and God’s 
blessing rest on my pure sister is the dying prayer of. 

Your brother, 

Herbert.” 

For days afterward Maud was unable to rise 
from her bed, but her uncle’s promise to go for the 
wife and baby of her dead brother, cheered her and 
helped her to regain her strength. She thought con- 
tinually of her sister-in-law and the little child who 
was Herbert’s son. How very strange it sounded to 
speak of Herbert’s baby-boy — ^Herbert’s wife. She 
yearned for them with all the strength of her loving, 
impulsive nature. She wrote a long letter, just a 
page at a time, as slie Avas able to be raised up on her 
jullows, and sent it to the address Herbert had given 
in his letter, Mr. Arnold told her he Avould go for 
them just as soon as she tvas able to sit up half a day 
at a time, and all her urging could not get him away 
until then. 

Sam handed his master a letter one evening, say- 
ing the postmaster had given it to him the day before. 
"‘Am bei'iy sorry, massa. Clar’ fo’got all ’bout it,” 
said the contrite fellow. 

“ Don’t let it happen again, Sam,” said Mr. Arnold, 
in a stern tone. 


164 


Dorance, 


It was from Wilbur Alton. They would start for 
home the next week. The letter had followed them 
about from place to place, and they had only received 
it the day before that date. Words could not ex- 
press their joy at knowing the lost son and heir of 
Alton Hall was found, and that it had seemed almost 
incredible at first, that after so many years, and when 
they had abandoned all search for him, he should yet 
be found and restored to his rightful position. Ches- 
ter Arnold wondered whether he could comprehend 
any part of that father’s deep thankfulness. 

He went at once to find Dorance and tell him that 
the yoke had been lifted from his life, and that his 
name was one that he might well be proud of. 

Zulu said Dorance and Inda had gone to the little 
arbor by the lake. He took the path thither, and 
found them. Dorance sat on one of the rustic seats, 
his face leaned forward on his folded hands. Inda 
stood by him with one arm laid across his neck, and 
talking in quick, excited voice. She saw her uncle 
coming, and turned to him with no blush of false 
shame on her face, for she felt none. 

“ Uncle Chester, help me to convince this foolish 
fellow that he is worthy of any woman’s best love.” 

Dorance raised his head to speak, but Inda laid a 
hand over his mouth. 

“ Yes,” replied Mr. Arnold, ‘‘ he is indeed worthy 
your best love. But, my dear niece, could you con- 
quer your pride so far as to marry one in his station 
of life?” 

‘‘Yes, Uncle, I could. You have told me over and 
over again that you believed there was no mixed 
blood in his veins.” 


Retrlhution, 


155 


Dorance would be heard now. 

‘‘Mr. Arnold, do not think for one moment that I 
sanction her wild words. I would take my own life 
rather than forget all I owe to you and to myself. It 
is presumption in me, a slave by birth, to dare love 
your niece, but that was beyond my control.” 

“ I see, my boy, it is rather hard lines for you. If 
I could clear up this mystery connected with you, 
and it was proven your name was as honorable as my 
own, what then ? ” 

“ Oh, Master, you do not know what you are say- 
ing! I love her better than my hope of heaven. 
Don’t drive me beyond what I can bear.” 

Dorance laid his face down again on his arms, and 
there was a hopelessness in his very attitude that 
touched the elder man’s heart. 

“ Dorance, I long ago forbade you calling me mas- 
ter, and I had a good reason for doing it. Since that 
time I have ‘fully proven your right to the title of 
gentleman. You are of as honorable parentage as 
Inda herself, the scion of one of the oldest families in 
Tennessee, and heir to one of the best cultivated 
plantations in the South. I have not told you this 
until now, because I waited to hear from your father, 
who is in Europe. I have his letter in my hand.” 

Dorance had risen to his feet, and the drops of 
sweat stood out like beads on his pale forehead, 
while the muscles of his face twitched painfully. 

“ Sit down, my boy,” said Mr. Arnold gently. 
“ It is a long story.” 

Then he told him of the mother who had died in 
his infancy, and of his abduction by Aunt Ohio’, 
whose reason had been dethroned for a time, by his 


Doran ce. 


ir>6 

i'allier’if? selling' awav lier dauoliter from her. Of 

O %/ o 

Bess’s death-bed disclosures, and of his journey to 
Tennessee to prove the truth of her words. He read 
the father’s letter aloud to the son, and added, “ God 
has led you in a mysterious path through all these 
years. Don’t forget to give Him the praise, now 
that He has opened a beautiful vista to your eyes. 
You have my hearty approval to love my niece. Had 
it been wrong I would have removed her out of your 
Avay. Perhaps I have done Avrong not to tell you 
before, but I Avanted Inda to love the man first, not 
his position. Her pride Avas a defect in her character.” 

He smiled at Inda, then went away, leaving them 
in their joy. 

Dorance rose and folded the girl to his lieart, then 
knelt and poured out his soul in a prayer of thanks- 
giving to the God Avho had led him out of the dark 
shadow of bondage into the jojmus sunlight of loA^e 
and happiness. They sat for hours in tlie little 
arbor, not lieeding the darkness, too happy to note 
the flying time. Then they Avent up to Maud’s 
room, to tell her their hopes, and give her a share in 
their full measure of gladness. But Mr. Arnold was 
before them. Maud laid an arm about each neck, 
and cried for A^ery joy. 

Noav I knoAV you Avill forgive my poor brother 
for the soiTOAV he caused you,” she said to Dorance. 

I forgave him long ago, Maud. Could I harbor 
a spite against the dead? ” he replied. 

Inda changed the subject at once as she saw the 
tears fill the sick girl’s eyes, and they talked so bright- 
ly of their future that Maud smiled with them, the 
first smile that had lit her sad face for many days. 


Maud and JElda. 


15T 


CHAPTER XXL 


MAUD AND ELDA. 


Dorance, Incla, and Maud were together in the 
parlor one evening, some three weeks after Mr. 
Arnold’s departure for Cincinnati. Maud lay on the 
sofa, a light shawl wrapped about her wasted figure. 
Inda was at the piano, and Dorance stood near her 
turning the leaves of her music, and joining his voice 
with hers on the chorus of the song. Presently a 
lull in the music made audible the sound of carriage 
wheels on the gravel drive, and they all listened 
attentively. 

Who can it be at this time of day?” said Maud. 

I’ll go and see,” answered Dorance, and he went 
out to the veranda. The sound of baggage being- 
dumped on the floor in the hall, and an indistinct 
murmur of voices came to Maud’s and Inda’s ears, 
and, a moment after, Chester Arnold came into the 
room and clasped Maud in a warm embrace, hiding 
from her view the lady who had entered behind him, 
and whom Dorance introduced as ‘‘ Herbert’s wife ” 
to Inda. 

•‘Uncle Chester, where is my sister and Herbert’s 
little son ? ” 

“ Here, Maud,” and he led her to the pale little 
figure, which seemed more like a child than a wife 
and mother. 

“ My sister,” was all Maud could say, as she folded 


158 


Dorance, 


her arms about the slight form. Her sobs came un- 
restrained, for she was still weak and nervous. It 
was a sorrowful meeting to them both, but most so 
to the sister who had never known of this wife and 
baby until her brother was in his grave. The sight 
of them brought back afresh her sorrow, and it 
was long before she could restrain herself. She took 
the child in her arms and kissed it time and again. 

It was a pretty babe, and seemed not to know fear 
of strange faces and voices. Herbert’s wife stooped 
down and kissed both Maud and the child. 

My sister and my baby,” she said, in a quivering, 
tone. 

When quiet was restored, and she sat with Maud on 
the sofa, her babe asleep on her bosom, Dorance and 
Inda had a chance to see her. She was very small : 
so little and dainty and childlike that Inda found her- 
self wondering whether this could be Herbert’s wife. 
Her face was a peculiar one, with its white and rose 
complexion and the eyes dark as midnight shadows, 
with sweet, sad lights in them, suggestive of solemn 
moonrays on quiet waters. Her hair was glossy 
black and wavy, and soft as an infant’s. She was 
dressed in deep mourning, her only ornaments being 
a slender gold chain and locket, Herbert’s gift before 
tlieir marriage, and the wedding ring on her finger. 

‘‘ As lovely as a poet’s dream,” thought Inda, in the 
words of an author she had read aloud that evening 
to Maud and Dorance. ‘‘ How could any man throw 
aside such a love as that? What a world of passion 
and feeling in those eyes. See the sweet tremulous 
mouth, too weak, perhaps, but oh, so loving and 
tender. Look at the light that seems to break over 


Maud and Elda, 


159 


her whole face, as she kisses her babe. It is the 
reflection from her pure soul.” 

Other eyes than Inda’s saw the wonderful loveli- 
ness of Herbert’s wife, also. Chester Arnold thought 
her the most perfect woman in form and feature he 
had ever yet seen. His great, fatherly heart had 
gone out to her at once. The tender, sorrowful face 
had plead her cause as no words could have done. He 
had taken her to his bosom, and had let her weep 
out her burst of tears there, as he would have done 
had she been his daughter. Had kissed her babe 
with a growing tenderness for both it and the young 
mother, so childlike herself in her helplessness and 
ignorance of the world. ‘‘ These poor lambs shall 
find a safe fold while I live,” he mentally said, and 
as an earnest of his words, had settled up all Her- 
bert’s affairs and brought his wife and infant boy 
home to Elmwood Grange. 

Dorance thought, as he looked at Elda, that had he 
never yet forgiven Herbert Arnold his dastardly sin, 
he should do so now for the sake of his lovely child- 
wife. It seemed absurd to call her by any other 
name than “ Elda.” ‘‘ Mrs. Arnold ” sounded alto' 
gether out of place, when you once looked at the 
fair, sweet face that was dimpled and rosy, as though 
neither time nor sorrow had any power to make it 
grow old or lose its rose-bud charm. We have said 
it was a peculiar face, and yet words fail to describe 
the feature or expression that made the peculiarity. 
Whether it was the great dark eyes, with the chang- 
ing lights in them, or the varying shades that chased 
each other over the speaking countenance, with every 
emotion of thought — now sad, then lighting up again 


IGO 


Durance, 


before you could guess what it was that caused you 
to think she was sad — it would be impossible to say. 
So thought Dorance as he watched her, and wondered 
yet more how Herbert Arnold had ever won this rare 
flower for his own, and then worn it so carelessly. 

As time went by and her shyness Avore off, she 
told them much of her own and Herbert’s life, and 
it was such a different phase of his character from 
any he had shown them at Elmwood plantation, that 
they began to think more kindly of him than they 
had done. How differently we can show our nature 
to those with whom we conm in contact. Perhaps 
Herbert Arnold’s case is only an illustration of the 
theory that we give just so much and of a kind, 
as we receive from those with whom we meet, 
whether it be love or hate, liking or dislike. 

They soon knew that Herbert had been a kind, 
affectionate husband to this little woman, in all that 
her nature required or demanded with its slender 
stock of knowledge. No such scalding tears wet her 
cheeks as nightly coursed down the poor sister’s. No 
such bitter recollections marred the tender memory of 
the dead, and they all felt that she should be guarded 
from ever knowing the awful sin that made any 
thought of him a dread nightmare to them. 

Chester Arnold forbade the servants to ever men- 
tion Herbert’s name in the presence of his wife. He 
told them of the dreadful suffering and remorse of 
those last hours, and how he had plead for forgiveness 
for all his selfish acts, and, like all their impression- 
able race, they forgave him and held as something 
sacred the sweet young widow and her pretty babe. 
Elda soon won their love and entire devotion by her 


(Xihd idldct* 


161 


gentle ways, and little Herbert was the pet of every 
slave on the plantation in less than a month’s time. 

Maud felt that she still had some tie in the world, 
and she would repeat over and over ‘‘ Herbert’s wife, 
Herbert’s baby,” until the thought that her brother 
liad had a wife and a little innocent child, of whose 
existence he had never told her, would send her away 
by herself to weep over his wasted life and sad death. 
She destroyed his last little note to her after kissing 
and crying over it, for fear some accident would bring 
it to Elda’s eyes. She would listen with a painful 
throbbing of her heart to the wife’s tender praises of 
her husband. 

“ Did Herbert love his child ? ” asked Maud one 
day. 

Oh, yes, he loved baby, yet he would always say 
he loved me best. He used to kiss me and tell me I 
was his only salvation, all he had in the world to hold 
him back from utter ruin. Yet of course that was 
just his praise of me, because he had yoii^ his sister. 
What a good man he was ! I hope my child will 
grow up to be like him.” 

“ God forbid ! ” came almost audibly from Maud’s 
lips, but she checked the words ere they reached the 
ears of the young mother. 

In the solitude of her own room she prayed God to 
keep the child from ever being like its father, while 
she thanked Him that he had put the one good im- 
pulse in her brother’s heart to be kind and affec- 
tionate to his gentle wife. 


11 


162 


lJ(j ranee. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A DOMESTIC SPIRIT. 

You need not go for the mail this morning, Sam,” 
said the master. ‘‘ I will go myself. You may 
saddle Charger and bring him around to the front, 
in half an hour.” 

“ Berry well, massa. I’ll hab’ him here.” 

When Chester Arnold came out of the house, the 
three young ladies followed him to the steps, the 
child perched on Elda’s shoulder. What a pretty 
picture they made, standing there in the wintry sun- 
shine, which gave a warm, mellow glow to the other- 
wise dull scene. The wind was blowing a brisk 
breeze, and the withered leaves were whirling in little 
eddies across the driveway. The baby clapped its 
little hands with glee at sight of the horse standing, 
champing its bit. Chester Arnold took the child in 
his arms, and laid its head on the glossy neck. 

‘‘ Oh, Uncle, take care of my baby ! ” said Elda in 
an anxious tone. 

‘‘ Never fret about that, my dear, I love little 
Herbie too well, myself, to let him come to harm if I 
can prevent it.” 

He kissed the chubby cheeks tenderly and gave 
him back into the mother’s arms again. The child 
had crept into his heart in a strange, subtle manner 
these past weeks. He had a big heart, full of fatherly 
affection, and there had been no child to fill it since 


.1 Domestic Sjyirit, 163 

]ie had laid his own little babe in its grave, long years 
before. 

He fancied Elda’s child looked like his own little 
son, and he loved him yet more fondly for that 
reason. 

‘‘ You shall be my daughter now,” he had told 
Elda one day, ‘‘and this my little grandson. You 
shall never leave me again. My home here would be 
very lonely without you when Inda marries. Maud’s 
stepfather will claim her, until some younger man 
comes and lays a stronger hold upon her affections, 
so you and I and the baby will be left here alone.” 

Elda felt the kindness of this great-hearted man, 
and accepted his love for herself and child with 
grateful thanks. She stood watching him ride away 
this morning, thanking her heavenly Father for giv- 
ing her this friend in her dark liour of sorrow. All 
the world had looked dreary and desolate, before he 
came to her in the city after her husband’s death. 
She was so lonely and sad. Not a soul on whom she 
could lean in her weakness, and find strength. Oh, 
the desolation of the one who finds him or herself 
alone on the great ocean of humanity, yet surrounded 
by hundreds of their fellow beings, — stranded on the 
shoals of poverty, mayhap, or lost in the deep sea of 
trouble, and none to reach out a helping hand to them 
or say an encouraging word to them ! 

Herbert had rarely spoken of his sister after his 
mother’s death, and had never mentioned this kind, 
whole-souled uncle until he knew he must die ; then 
he had told her of the childless old man, whose great, 
true heart was always open to receive all such help- 
less waifs, and to whom lie liad written concerning 


164 


Dorance, 


her and his child. Herbert never doubted for an 
instant that Chester Arnold would come and take 
her home to his heart and house, and when he had at 
last come, Elda trusted and loved him with all the 
ardor of her young, intensely sensitive nature. 

The girls turned reluctantly back to the parlor? 
but Maud’s wistful eyes lingered on the sunlit win- 
dows, and at length she spoke her thought. 

Come and let us all go for a walk. It is too nice 
out-doors to stay moped up here by the fire. Let 
Zulu ’tend little Herbie for an hour, or call one of 
the other women.” 

“ There, Maud, I was sure you would say that, 
and so I have waited to broach my plan. Dinah and 
Aunt Chlo’, are making pies and cake to-day, and I 
propose we go down and learn how to make them, too. 
We sit here from day to-day, reading or doing fancy 
embroidery, until our eyes ache. Now, if you like 
my plan, we will change our monotonous ways, and 
take a lesson in cooking and housekeeping every day. 
I may have a home to look after some day, and would 
like at least to know how to direct my own house- 
hold affairs properly. What say you, Maud ? ” 

Oh, it is just the thing. We wdll get dinner and 
surprise Uncle and Dorance by our culinary accom- 
plishments. It will be not only fun, but a useful 
knowledge as well,” and Maud sprang up at once. 

Her old spirit of fun was slowly returning to her. 
Time, the great healer,” was teaching the poor girl 
patience and submission. 

Inda had proposed the plan in order to divert 
Maud’s mind from her troubles, and was glad to see 
her so ready to act on the suggestion. They pro- 


A Domestic Spirit, 


1G5 


ceeded to the kitchen and amazed Dinah by the dec- 
laration that they were going to learn how to cook, and 
she was to be their teacher. They found her rolling 
out pie dough. She lifted two floury hands above 
her turbaned head, and broke forth : “ Laws sakes, 
now hollies, you’s neber gwine to spile dem white 
ban’s, nor Dinah ain’t gwine to kotch a whippin’ from 
Massa when he comes home an’ fin’s de pa’lah gals in 
de kitchen. Lor’ now, yer don’t nary one know a 
’tater from a squash ! ” 

Dinah laughed at her own witticism, until the 
tears rolled down her black cheeks. 

‘‘ Yes, we do know that much, and you are such a 
good cook and such a dear old Auntie that you’ll 
soon teach us all about it.” 

Maud hugged the ample waist, and patted the 
liomely face, and won her way at once. 

Ah, my dear Maud, flattery given in just the right- 
sized dose and flavored to suit the taste, has won 
even more difficult points than the one at issue just 
now ! 

There was one weak point in Dinah’s strong armor 
of sound sense and blunt honesty. It was her pride 
in the art of getting up a good dinner, and a just 
pride too, which cannot be said of some people who 
lay claim to greater intelligence and culture than 
this humble cook in the kitchen of a Southern home. 
There was no mistake in the rumor afloat in that 
neighborhood, that Dinah was the best cook in all that 
region, and when such rumor floated to her hearing, 
— as what rumor does not reach the ears of the per- 
son whom it most concerns — she grew in her own 
estimation, and yet loftier flights in culinary 


16 G 


Doranre. 


Helds, and tlie fact tliat nothing but the best results 
of her efforts ever reached the eyes and palates of her 
master’s family and guests, she grew in the estima- 
tion of all who sat at that hospitable board. Maud 
liad touched the right chord in lier Iieart, and so she 
dropped her hands to her work again, and gave her 
orders. 

“ Zulu, you liuzzy, fotcli two big, clean gingham 
aperns an’ tie on ’em in place of dem scraps o’ lace 
an’ muslin, an’ guv’ Miss Inda some lemons to grate, 
an’ ]\Iiss Maud some reasins to stone. I can’t hab’ 
dese pies spiled nohow, but they kin bake de cake 
an’ make de puddin’ to-day, an’ if dis streak hoi’s out 
dey may bake pies nex’ time. Hyar you, Ji ni ! Keep 
yer fingers outen dem reasins ! ” and Dinah gave a 
resounding slap on the ear of a sly eight-year-old who 
liad spied the open box of raisins, and was surrepti- 
tiously helping himself. He flew out of the back door 
with a war-whoop and an extra large handful of the 
goodies, and sat down ten feet away to eat them, not 
taking time to dust the flour out of his woolly head 
and ear. Inda laughed immodei*ately at the funny 
grimaces of the young monkey, and Maud beckoned 
him in again, when Dinah’s back was turned, and 
gave him another handful. 

The girls sifted the flour, beat the eggs, and 
finally got the ingredients together for a cake; Zulu 
giggling at their awkward manner, but helping them 
and correcting their errors with much scolding from 
Dinah, who would never have brought a meal to per- 
fection unless she could freely scold some one. 
Zulu minded her sharp words no more than she 
would a mosquito bite, but generally kept out of reach 


167 


A iJorneistic Spirit, 

of the broad, powerful hand. Dinah’s words to the 
novitiates under her charge were very kind and 
gentle, however. She was very proud to teach her 
art to such distinguished applicants, whereas had 
they been of her own class they would have got little 
knowledge from her except by observation. 

Why, dat ar’ cake am jes’ fit fo’ de gub’ner to 
eat,” she said, as she took the golden brown loaf from 
the hot oven. “An’ de puddin’ am jes’ hoovin’ up 
near de top of de pan. Now, Miss Inda may stir dis 
gravy an’ pour it ober de stewed meat, while Miss 
Maud ’ranges de table.” 

“ Mutton steaks and cream gravy,” said Maud, as 
she went into the dining-room. “ I declare, I am as 
hungry as a bear, if you know how hungry that is, 
Inda. Elda, isn’t it nice to learn to cook ? Why, 1 
mean to do a part of my own cooking when I have a 
house.” 

Uncle Chester was somewhat surprised at this sud- 
den freak of his nieces, but he approved the plan 
heartily, and ate two slices of the cake and an extra 
dish of the pudding. Dorance slyly pinched Inda’s 
cheek and asked her whether she meant to do his cook- 
ing always. But as the weeks went by, and the girls 
still took a lesson each day and began to try experi- 
ments on their own responsibility, and as their efforts 
were always crowned with success (at least the part 
which appeared on the table), they gave over laugh- 
ing at them and calling it a whim. 

Dinah was in raptures. She firmly believed there 
^vere no such girls in Southern Virginia as Maud and 
Inda. 

The roses came back to Maud’s cheeks, and a new 


168 


Dorance. 


vigor to her weakened body. Her exercise each 
morning in the kitchen gave her a keen appetite for 
her dinner, and the useful knowledge they gained 
was of inestimable value to them both. A woman 
without a thorough knowledge of the details of house- 
keeping will not prove a successful home-keeper. It 
is like a ship sent out to sea without chart or com- 
pass, where difficulty means danger, and a slight 
reckoning of the little points may land the vessel 
safely. 

The days wore on until spring was once more greet- 
ing the face of nature with its smiles, and March 
winds gave way to April showers and sunshine. It 
was during this month of new awakening life that Sam 
appeared before his master with a confusion of man- 
ner that was quite unusual to the self-confident 
fellow. 

What is it, Sam ? ” asked the master. “ Some- 
thing gone wrong with the horses ? ” 

“No, Massa, the bosses all right. I is come ter 
see yer ’bout a little matter ob my own.” 

“ Well, out with it. You are a pretty good fellow, 
and I am willing to give you a holiday, if that is what 
you want.” 

“No, sail, dat ain’t it. Yer sees as how I want 
Zulu for my woman, an’ her an’ me hab been dis- 
cussin’ de matter, an’ we’s bof ’greed ’cordin’ if yer is 
too. Jim am married dis long time, an’ I is gittin’ 
up in age, an’ thought mebby I’d better settle down 
in life.” 

“ So you want to get married, do you ? ” 

“ Yah, Massa, dat am it jes’ zactly. Yer couldn’t 
a said it in less words, sah.” 


169 


A Domestic Sjoirit, 

‘‘Well, you've always worked and obeyed without 
giving any trouble, and Zulu is a good girl, so I 
think you may be married. When do you want it 
done ? ” 

“ Now yer see, Massa, when a man am finkin’ dis 
yer way, de sooner it am done with an’ ober de bettah 
for him, kase it kinder keeps a fellah in a stew all de 
time.” 

“ That is so, Sam,” said Mr. Arnold, trying hard 
to repress a smile. “ We will have you married in a 
week from now, and if it is fine weather we will have 
the ceremony out here under the trees, and a fine 
supper. Here is some money for you to buy a new 
suit, and I will have the girls fix Zulu up in grand 
style. Do you want to have the preacher to say the 
words or shall I read the ceremony ? ” 

“Why, sah, seein’ as dey understan’s deScripterso 
well, mebby dey does it bettah, daf s all.” 

“ All right, my boy. See your preacher and tell 
him to be here by four o’clock in the afternoon one 
week from to-day.” 

Chester Arnold would not permit his slaves to 
“ take up ” with each other as the marriage institution 
was termed on most Southern plantations. He held 
as sacred the marriage relation among people of that 
class, just the same as among contracting parties of 
his own race. He strictly forbade the habit among 
them of choosing a partner and living together just 
so long as it suited them both to do so. When any 
of his people desired to marry and have a home to 
themselves, he either read the marriage ceremony and 
explained its sacred nature to them, or had some one 
of their ministers to perform the nuptial rites. Thei'e 


ITO 


Dorance. 


was no sundering of families on this jdaiitation, iior 
had there been for many years, otherwise a sacred 
marriage would have been but a mockery. 

Mr. Arnold had bought a large tract of timber land 
in the South-west for a mere nothing soon after his 
wife’s death, and as the people increased and grew 
too numerous on his plantation, he sent them in 
families, giving them the choice as to whether they 
would go or stay, to this new place to clear off the 
timber and bring it under cultivation. It had proved 
a paying business to Iiim, and had obviated tlie 
l)ainful necessity of selling them off. When a man 
or woman had reached the age of sixty years they 
were given their free papers and were sent north to 
Canada, or to iVfrica if they preferred going to the 
land of their birth or ancestry. Again, when a couple 
had lived together for thirty-five years, they were 
given free papers and established in a home in Can- 
ada or Africa, without regard to age. His system 
had brought a storm of condemnation upon his head 
from the neighboring planters at first, but Mr. Arnold 
paid no heed to it then. A few years later he would 
have been warned to discontinue his humane plan of 
keeping families together and giving many of them 
their freedom, or his person and property Avould have 
been the price of his philanthropic ideas concerning 
the inferior race. But the reader must remember our 
story is of the times when the ostrich egg of emanci- 
pation was neither hatched nor in the process of 
hatching, except as God's natural laws were working 
out the problem slowly. When the South ruled the 
North without a question as to Avhether it had tlie 
power or ability to do so, Mr. Arnold was considered 


171 


A Domestic SpwiU 

“ Quixotic, ” and so long as he did no one but himself 
any harm they were content to let him and his queer 
ideas alone. He had gone to the new plantation and 
established his people there, seeing that they were 
well housed and kindly cared for by the overseer, and 
his bank account, instead of diminishing by this new 
order of things, increased to the extent of justifying 
him in freeing and educating the elderly ones among 
his slaves. Quite a little village had grown up on 
the banks of a small river in the Province of Quebec, 
and the educational advantages afforded them, were 
eagerly accepted ; consequently the standard of intel- 
ligence and morality was far above the average of 
people of that class and condition in life. Churches 
and schools, mills, factories, industries of various 
kinds, grew up among them and developed the latent 
talents that are as truly inherent in this, as in other 
races if but the proper time and chance is once given 
them. 

But, to return to Sam and the happy prospect be 
fore him. He was giving Zulu an account of his con- 
versation with the master, when Maud and Inda went 
in pursuit of the bride-elect, and informed her of the 
good news of a new dress and hat for the occasion. 
She simpered and giggled, but looked pleased and 
happy, as what girl of seventeen would not who was 
to marry the man of her choice and have a brilliant 
wedding. So she and the young ladies were soon on 
their way to the village to buy the dress of dresses 
in a woman’s estimation. She was allowed her own 
choice of colors, and a gorgeous pink delaine, spotted 
with green and scarlet flowers of immense size was 
at last fixed upon and purchased. 


172 


Dorance. 


That evening and the next day, the ladies of Elm- 
wood Grange were too busy cutting and making up 
the bridal robes, to heed the confusion all over the 
premises. 

Dorance picked up scissors and thread, and ‘‘ made 
himself generally useful,” as Maud said. 

The master repaired and fitted up a cabin for the 
reception of the bride ; and the table, bed, and chairs, 
were moved in, and the few dishes and pieces of 
crockery-ware were arranged on tlie shelves over the 
wide-mouthed chimney, Sam bossing the job, and 
working with might and main. 

Some meal and potatoes, rice and bacon were next 
put away in the new home, and one old auntie with 
a motherly heart, made up the bed and swept up the 
hearth. Maud and Inda then went down to see the 
new home. 

They declared it very cozy and nice, ‘‘but,” said 
Maud, “ it wants one thing more. The windows must 
have some new curtains.” 

“ Yes, and a pot of flowers,” said Inda. 

So the curtains were put up, and a pot of geraniums 
and another of fuchsias were placed on the broad, low 
sills, and then everything was completeo Zulu would 
not go near it, and kept out of the way as much as 
possible. Her sharp-tongued mother, Dinah, scolded 
less and gave wholesale advice on tho best way to 
manage a home and a husband, gave her a share in 
the extra work of preparing the wedding feast, and 
told her the best metliod of training a family and 
bringing children through the measles and whooping- 
cough and chicken-pox. A wise and good mother 
was Dinah in sending her daughter out fully equipped 


A Domestic Sjjirit, 


1T3 


for the grave conflicts of the life of a wife and pos- 
sible mother. Would that we had more such 
mothers in all classes of life. 

The sun rose unclouded on Sam’s wedding day, 
and the preparations went steadily forward until three 
o’clock, and then, all things being ready, the holiday 
dresses were donned, and at four o’clock every slave 
on the plantation, from the oldest down to the ten 
days old black baby in its mother’s arms, were gath- 
ered on the lawn, where the long table was spread 
with such things as seldom fall to the lot of those in 
slavery. 

The colored preacher, Brudder Jones,” was seated 
at a little distance conversing with some of the lay- 
men of his flock, and arrayed in all the dignity of 
black clothes and white choker. A very tall and 
very cheap silk hat surmounted his beaming counte- 
nance, and was his especial pride on grand occasions, 
such as a wedding or a funeral. 

Mr. Arnold and Dorance and the ladies were all 
seated and waiting the appearance of the bridal 
couple. At exactly quarter to five, the bride and 
groom walked out of the house and took their places. 
“ Brudder Jones,” who looked amazed for a moment, 
at the bridal finery, rose and said the words that 
bound them together for better or worse. Then 
followed the long prayer, during which the audience 
looked first at the bride in her pink gorgeousness, 
then at the tempting supper. Finally it ended with 
a grand flight of oratory, and the master and family 
greeted the newly married couple with best wishes^^'" 
and the whole company adjourned all other business 
for the important one of eating. How they did eat ! 


174 


Dv! \ince. 


Mr. Arnold and the girls, who Avere watching the 
operation, began to fear there would not be sufficient 
to satisfy their appetites. But at last they showed 
signs of flagging. The mouthfuls disappeared yet 
more slowly until not one could eat anything more. 

Then the table was cleared away and the fiddles 
and banjoes tuned up. They danced like they ate, 
with all their might, and kept it up till nine o’clock, 
when the master went out, and by a few good-natured 
remarks, dispersed them to their cabins. But not 
until they had given three rousing cheers for ‘‘ Massa 
Arnol’.” 


V 


Father and Son. 


IT.*') 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

FATHER AND SON. 

Chester Arnold entered the library one morn- 
ing where Dorance sat with a copy of Blackstone 
open before him, and handing him an open letter, 
said, “ I have heard from yonr father’s wife, my bo)^ 
and her letter is the bearer of very sad news for you. 
Will you read it, or shall I read it to you ? ” 

New York City, 

May 23rd, 18 — 

Steamer Argus arrived here to-day. Wilbur Alton 
died the evening of the 19th. Will start with the body 
to-morrow, for Tennessee. Meet me at Alton Hall. 

Mrs. Elsie Alton.^’ 

To Chester Arnold, Esq., 

Elmwood Grange, 

Bockmlle P. 0., 

N County, Va.'’ 

Dorance rose to his feet and stood like one sud- 
denly stricken dumb. His father dead ! The father 
whom he had thought and dreamed of since first he 
knew he had a parent living, and from whom a cruel 
fate had parted him in his infancy. Died while on 
liis way to greet that long lost son and restore him 
to his rightful place in his ancestral home, and his 
hungering heart — the heart that had grieved for his 
child, so many long years. Now all those bright an- 
ticipations of reunion in the old home would end in a 


176 


Dor (Dice, 


funeral dirge. The saddened soul of the parent was 
released from all earthly sorrow, and the son’s hope 
of at last knowing a father’s affection was doomed to 
disappointment. He would greet the father’s coffined 
clay only. He passed his liand across his eyes, as 
though the shock had deprived him of the sense of 
vision, and stretched out his hand for the letter, 
scarcely conscious of what he was doing. 

“ Shall we start this afternoon for Tennessee, and 
meet your father’s wife, when she arrives with her sad 
burden ? Remember her sorrow, too,” said Mr. Ar- 
nold. 

“ It is very hard ; cruelly so, after all I had hoped 
for.” 

Yes, my boy, it is hard, but don’t allow your 
lieart to grow rebellious under the stroke. God’s 
ways are past our finding out. We are apt to judge 
Him harshly when he lays a heavy hand on us, and 
too apt to forget Him entirely in our happier 
moments. Yet through it all he deals very mercifully 
with us. We can start from here in two hours and 
catch the afternoon boat at Rockville, if you can be 
ready by then.” 

‘‘ I will be ready, sir, before the time you name.” 

Dorance went to his room at once, and began pack- 
ing his travelling bag. He had thought of this 
journey under such different circumstances that lie 
could hardly realize yet the great change an hour had 
wrought in his anticipated visit to the home that was 
his now by inheritance. There came a low tap on 
his door, and Inda’s voice, saying: ‘‘Dorance, may I 
come in for a moment ? I can only say I am sorry, 


Father and Son, 


177 


dear. You had not counted on any such meeting as 
this.” 

She drew his head down on her bosom, and kissed 
liim tenderly. Dorance’s voice was full of tears, 
though none dimmed his eyes. 

‘‘ Yes, Inda, it will be a sad home-coming for the 
son. The father — my father — is beyond all earth’s 
troubles. But I must think of my father’s wife and 
my little blind half-sister. Their loss is greater than 
mine, for, until recently, I had no hope beyond the 
boundaries of this plantation. Now, I have a name, 
and place in the world, and you are my chief joy — - 
almost the only one of my life. Now go, and let me 
get ready. You know we are to start in a little 
while.” 

“ No, I did not know. Can I help you any ? ” 

“ Not now. You have helped me greatly already, 
by your sympathy.” 

They were soon at Rockville and seated on the 
boat, which was .in when they reached the landing. 
Dorance felt very sad that he was going home 
to meet his father like this, after more than twenty 
years’ separation. He leaned his head on his hand 
and rode many miles in silence, not heeding the 
scenes through which they were rapidly passing. 
He could think of nothing else but the home which 
had sheltered him in his helpless infancy, and which 
was as unfamiliar to him as was the father whom he 
would never know now until they met beyond this 
life. 

They arrived at Nashville the next day but one, 
and Mr. Arnold hired a conveyance to take them out 
to Alton plantation at once. Dorance’s heart beat 
12 


178 


Boranee. 


painfully as they neared the boundaries of the place 
where he had been born and which was now his by 
right of inheritance, but which was as strange to him 
as to Mr. Arnold, who had no interest in it except for 
the sake of the son who had been so cruelly abducted 
from it and from his natural protector, and had been 
led by a strange providence to find a home and pro- 
tection at Elmwood Grange. 

They found the house in a commotion over the 
news received that morning, of the master’s death. 
The overseer was glad to welcome Mr. Arnold, for 
lie needed his advice on many points. He could 
hardly believe his senses when told that Dorance 
was the lost son of Wilbur Alton. Some of the older 
slaves recognized the strong likeness to the father, 
and a fainter one to the young mother, who had died 
in less than a year after her child’s birth. They gave 
liim such a glad welcome home, some of them witli 
tears running down their cheeks, that all the desola- 
tion of his life seemed to rush over him and over- 
whelm him with a sense of all he had lost in the 
affections of parents and friends 

‘‘ Oh, can I ever forgive the one who has caused 
me all this ? ” he thought. Then Jiie remembered that it 
was his father’s sin, in tearing away the child from 
its mother, that had driven Aunt Ohio’ to her act of 
revenge. “Perhaps it was God’s way of working- 
some good end, and but for the untoward circum- 
stances of my life I sliould never have known my 
darling, my peerless Inda. No, T will not murmur 
against His decrees, although I have missed a parent’s 
affection and suffered untold humility as one of tlio 
despised race.” 


* Father and Son, 


179 


It was almost impossible to tear himself away from 
these warm-hearted people, who had known and loved 
him in his early childhood, but at last the overseer’s 
voice warned them that the work must go forward, 
and they left him. Dorance went up to the library 
where hung the portraits of his ancestors for many 
generations back. He found his father’s picture 
among them without trouble, but which of the 
two pictures of his wives was his own sainted mother ? 
The blinding tears prevented him from seeing them 
closely for a while. Before him hung the portraits 
of father, mother, and many others of his proud race, 
and he had been brouglit up a slave, not knowing, 
until a few weeks back, that he belonged, by blood 
and birth, to one of the oldest families of Southern 
chivalry. Truly, a strange fate had followed him all 
these years. 

After long and earnest reading of the faces of El- 
sie and Agnes, he decided that he could trace his 
mother’s features in his own, and he was right. The 
bold outline of feature that marked the Altons was 
softened in this son by the gentler expression of the 
Allingfords. The proud, haughty carriage that was 
a distinguishing trait of his father’s race, was blended 
with the milder dignity of the sweet young mother, 
who had been called away from the cradle of her 
little son to lie down in her grave. 

‘‘ Mother, my sweet mother, it is well you were 
spared all trouble by your early death ! Better that 
your infant son had died too, than live to know the 
bitter sorrow that has darkened his life ! ” 

At last he turned to Elsie’s portrait for a closer 
study of it, and a recognition seemed to come to him 


180 


Dorance, 


of the faultless face and expression. The longer he 
looked, the firmer grew his belief that he had seen 
that face before — but where ? 

A face like that is not easily forgotten. Where 
have I met this beautiful woman ? ’’ he said, aloud. 

It was a painting of Elsie just after her marriage, 
done by a master liand at the art, and was indeed of 
rare loveliness. The dark eyes and delicate coloring 
of brows and lips, the glossy black hair, in luxuriant 
masses over tlie shoulders, and just shaded by a filmy 
lace scarf throAvn carelessly over the head, made up 
a subject worthy of an artist’s brush. It was as true 
to the life as a face on canvas can be to the warm, 
living, animated features done by God’s own hand, 
and never yet rivalled by pencil or brush of man. 
No, such a face once seen is not easily forgotten ; yet 
Dorance could not remember the time nor place 
where he had met Ins father’s second wife. 

“ My father, can it be we have met and looked 
into each other’s eyes, yet failed to know the tie that 
bound us together as father and son?” 

It was a solemn hour tliat Dorance spent in that 
room. His father’s chair stood drawn up to the table 
where lay scattered about pens, pencils and paper, as 
though the master had sat and wrote there only tho 
day before going away, and leaving everything in 
the hands of his overseer. Bits of paper, with figures 
and dates jotted down, and one half-sheet of a letter 
that was blotted, and had probably been thrown aside 
for that reason, was signed with Wilbur Alton’s 
name and address. It was only a business letter but 
very pi’ecious to the son, who had naught but these 
few mementos to bind him to that father whose body 


Father and Son, 


181 


was now on its way home, for burial, and whose 
coffined face he would probably be denied the sight 
of, after being so long dead. 

Chester Arnold inquired as to the probable time 
Mrs. Alton would arrive with the body of her 
husband, and when the boat came in was there 
to meet her. He had ordered a hearse to be in read- 
iness, and was standing on the crowded pier when 
the coffin was carried ashore and set down. There 
was the usual rush, people rushing hither and thither 
as though the boat was to start again immediately. 
They all fell back, however, as the coffin was lifted 
up. The men raised their hats, in the presence of 
death and the sorrowing woman. The little blind 
child clung to her mother’s skirts, crying in sad baby 
voice, ‘‘ Mamma, mamma, don’t cry ! You make 
Jessie cry too.” 

The sad, plaintive face touched every mother’s heart, 
and tears of sympathy sprung to many eyes for the 
little one whose way through life would be along a 
dark and cheerless road, without one glimpse of God’s 
beautiful handiwork all about her. 

Dorance had not come. He felt that he could not 
calmly bear the sight of his father’s coffin in that 
jostling throng, and had waited at home to meet his 
father’s corpse and greet the widowed wife. Mr. 
Arnold went forward and introduced himself to Mrs. 
Alton. She gave him her hand, but choking sobs for- 
bade any words at that moment. He led her to the 
carriage and assisted her into it, with the nurse and 
child. He then went back and ordered the coffin 
placed in the hearse. The baggage was all carefully 


182 


Do ranee. 


disposed of, and lie took his place in the carriage be- 
side Mrs. Alton. 

The great iron monster began its puffing and snort- 
ing, the ringing bell warned “ all aboard,” and the 
boat went steaming down the river. 

Our reader must remember we are writing of the 
times when railroad facilities were a thing undreamed 
of as yet. The speedy and easy means of transport- 
ation of this day and age of the world would have 
seemed little short of miraculous at that time. 

It seemed to the stricken wife that her heart wept 
drops of blood, as the carriage drove up the avenue 
to the door of the old home that would never again 
seem home to her, since he who had made its chief joy 
was being carried over the threshold in his coffin. 

Dorance stood in the parlor with a face white as 
marble, as his father’s coffin was brought in and set 
down. The slaves were gathered on the lawn, and 
their cries smote upon Elsie’s ears as she was lifted 
from the carriage almost as helpless as the dead. 
Dorance caught the child, his little half-sister, in his 
arms, and his tears fell upon the sightless upturned 
face. 

Who is you ? ” she asked, as she passed her hand 
softly over his face and hair. 

‘‘ I am your brother Dorance, and you are my sweet 
little flower of a sister. All I have left in the world, 
of my own kindred.” 

Does you love little Jessie ; ” 

“ Yes, I love you already for your own sake, as 
well as for the father of us both, who lies in that 
coffin. Oh father, father, can’t you feel my presence 
near you, the son whom you once loved and sorrowed 


Father and Son, 


183 


for? Oh, pity me, my God, — the bruised reed in thy 
hand ! ” 

Dorance knelt and laid his arms over the coffin lid, 
while little Jessie clung in fright to him. Soon the 
paroxysm of grief passed and he carried the child 
across the hall to the room where his stepmother was 
reclining in a chair, striving to overcome the faint- 
ness that seemed stealing her senses. He stood at 
the window until she could recover herself, and so ab- 
sorbed in painful thought was he, that he forgot all 
about her presence until a timid hand was laid on his 
arm and a sad voice spoke his name. 

“Dorance, I see you love my child. Will you not 
speak a kind word to me for the sake of your father ? ’’ 

He hastily put the child on the floor and took both 
trembling hands in his own 

“ Mother, I am glad to know you, for I have known 
no other all my life.” 

It was all he could say, but it was enough. She 
felt she had a friend in the eldest son of her husband. 
He was her friend now, but would he be when he 
knew it was her mother’s sin, that had separated him 
from his home and parent? The stinging thought 
would intrude itself into all her otherwise pleasant 
ones of this noble young man who was the lost son 
and heir of Alton Hall. 


184 


Ilprance* 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE MYSTERY FULLY REVEALED. 

That evening Elsie brought her child with her to 
the cozy back parlor where Dorance and Mr. Arnold 
sat, talking at intervals ^vith long silences between. 

Dorance rose and placed a chair for her near the 
fire, taking little Jessie on his knee. She looked at 
him a moment and her lip quivered, then she con- 
trolled herself and said : “ Dorance, and you too, Mr. 
Arnold, I have something to tell you, which I have 
reason to think you are unacquainted with, in con- 
nection with this mystery of Dorance’s abduction 
from this home, which is his now by inheritance. In 
the first place, Mr. Arnold, I would like to ask 
whether your slave. Aunt Ohio’, is still living? ” 

‘‘ She is,” replied Mr. Arnold. 

Oh, Father in heaven, I thank Thee for this one 
consolation in the midst of my bitter sorrow ! ” said 
Elsie, in a broken voice. 

Dorance, I think you know all the story of your 
mother’s death and father’s grief, of your own 
abduction from your home and of the wild frenzy 
of poor Aunt Ohio’. But did you ever know what 
became of Aunt Ohio’s daughter, after her master 
sold her away from Alton plantation ? ” 

No, mother, I have never heard any tidings from 
any one of her.” 

“ Don’t call me mother^ yet until you have heard 


The Mystery Fully Ilevealed. 185 

all my story. You may not wish to give me the title 
that belonged to the sainted Agnes by right of the 
dear tie that binds 3^011 to her even now. Your 
father went to the far South and rescued the girl 
again from a bondage that was worse than death, 
because of sickness and her brutal master’s treatment. 
She was wasted away by disease, and her low brood* 
ing spirits made every da}" of life an agony. Your 
father brought her home, and was himself stricken 
down by an illness that almost cost him his life. 
The loss of his son weighed v^ery heavy on him, and 
he would exert himself past his strength to bear the 
continual strain, to find some clue to you and the 
poor slave mother. But as months passed, and two 
years had gone b}-, with no sign or word of you, he 
abandoned all hope and settled down in the gloomy 
solitude of Alton Hall. Then the grateful heart of 
the slave girl turned }^et more toward him, and she 
devised eveiy means in her power to make him 
forget, even for a little time, his sorrow, and at last 
he began to find an interest and affection in her that 
was as pure and tender as that for his lost little one. 
He gave her her freedom from tlie bondage of slav- 
ery, and educated her like a dear daughter. Her 
genius for music was something out of the common 
order, and he went with her to a Northern institution 
Avhere every advantage was given her to develop and 
train the gift God had blest lier with, until the 
humble slave was the star of the most brilliant 
operas. Then he travelled with her from place to 
place, glorying in her success, until admiration grew 
into love, and the fatherly interest was lost in the 
lover’s devotion to her, who was his all. The girl 


186 


Dorance. 


had never dreamed of winning her former master for 
a husband, and fought against his pleading ; but her 
every act for years had been to please him and atone to 
him for her mother’s sin, in laying waste his hopes and 
joys in the future of his boy. So at last, she yielded 
to his wish and the promptings of her own loving 
heart and ” 

“ Mother, mother, let me finish your story. You 
are the daughter of Aunt Ohio’, the beautiful singer 
whom I heard at Washington. Oh, it all comes back 
to me now as you tell me of your life as a songstress. 
You seemed an angel to my boyish eyes that night. 

It was a new world of inspiration suddenly opened 
to me. Don’t you remember it, sir ? ” exclaimed the 
excited young man, turning to the elder one. I 
. said afterward that I had been in heaven and heard an 
angel sing. Master, Mr. Arnold, it was my father’s 
wife that sang. It was my father that spoke with 
you. Father, father, we have met and failed to 
recognized the strong tie of affection and blood that 
bound us together. Oh, my God ! can these things 
be and yet be just ? ” 

Dorance flung himself down on the floor and 
buried his face in Elsie’s lap, while his strong sobs 
shook him as with an ague. The certain knowledge 
that he had seen his father was too overpowering 
for him to preserve his self-control — he who had 
all his life been in the habit of repressing every 
emotion. 

Dear friend, would you and I, under similar cir- 
cumstances, have been able to control the mighty 
flood of disappointed affection that swept over Dor- 
ance’s soul at that moment ? All the love and tender 


The Mystery Fully Revealed. 18T 

protecting care that he had missed in his cruel sepa- 
ration from that father seemed to come to him ; all 
the weight of humiliation under which he had lived 
until recently. Can we wonder that our dignified 
Dorance was, for the time, just a weak human vessel 
for all the pent up emotions of years of sorrow and 
disappointment ? 

Elsie’s face was white as marble, and the features 
looked drawn and haggard. She opened her lips to 
speak, but no words would come to her aid. She 
laid her hand on the bowed head of her husband’s 
son, and silently asked the Great Physician to heal 
the bruised heart of this man whose life her own 
mother’s hand had desolated. Mr. Arnold went 
quietly from the room, leaving them alone to recover 
their composure and talk over the strange incidents 
connected with their lives — so alike in some respects, 
so utterly unlike in others. Little Jessie lay asleep 
on the sofa, and only the sound of the strong man’s 
weeping, always a pitiful one, broke the stillness that 
reigned in the room after Mr. Arnold had closed the 
door behind him. 

The silence seemed to recall Dorance from his pain- 
ful thoughts, and he lifted his head and saw the sad 
pleading face above him. He answered the unspoken 
words as truly as though she had said them. 

‘‘ No, I do not blame you for marrying my father. 
You have been his only comfort in all his troubles. 
How proud he was of you ; how much he loved you ! 
I, boy that I was, could read it in his face. You 
were none the less a good and pure woman because 
of the accident of your birth, nor he a man, because 
he loved you devotedly. I believed myself a slave 


188 


Dormice. 


until a few weeks ago, j^et I loved my master’s niece 
with all the strength of my soul. Mother, my dear 
mother, don’t refuse your love and sympathy to the 
son who has lived without either element to brighten 
the dark, rough road, or sweeten the bitter cup tliat 
fate has held to liis lips for his drinking all tlie years 
of his life. Will you not love the son for the sake of 
the father ? ” 

Do you forget it was my mother’s sin brought all 
your sorrow on you ? Can you forgive that, Dor- 
ance, the poor slave mother whose love for her child 
drove her wild ? ” 

Yes, I forgive her when I remember my father’s 
sill robbed her of her reason and desolated her life, 
she whose joys were few at best.” 

“No no; don’t blame my husband for this cursed 
sin of slavery — he who was always kind, and did all 
that one man could do to alleviate the hard lot of the 
bondman ! He did no wrong but to marry below him 
in rank, and our baby’s sightless eyes are perhaps the 
curse of God on us that we dared to lower the barrier 
He himself had raised.” 

“ Stop, mother, not so. My little half-sister is too 
pure and sinless to be a curse, or the outgrowth of 
one in any form. We cannot fathom God’s mysteries. 
He has taken care of you and me all our lives. He 
will care for your little blossom of a child with tend- 
erest love. ‘Not a sparrow falleth to the ground 
without the Father’s notice.’ ” 

Dorance rose and bent over the sleeping child with 
moist eyes, and a great love swelling his heart for 
this, his little half-sister, all that was left to him of 
kindred blood. 


The MijHtery Fully Revealed. 


189 


We will next follow Mr. Arnold np to his room, 
and see how he received the revelation of this part of 
the mystery. Not the remotest suspicion of this last 
fact had entered his mind. Bess had known nothing 
of the fate of Aunt Ohio’s daughter. Aunt Ohio’ 
herself did not know whether her child yet lived or 
that she was not still a slave, toiling for a master’s 
gain or pleasure. “ What if she knew all this strange 
truth ? ” thought the man as he walked back and 
forth across the room. 

What a combination of faults and virtues Wilbur 
Alton’s life presented ! He could not but pity the 
weakness of the man’s nature, while he thought with 
admiration of those noble qualities that had led him 
to do justice to the daughter, and thus atone in some 
measure for his sin toward the mother. ‘‘Poor 
ignorant mother, you thought to take vengeance in 
your own hands, and through your act, God has raised 
up your child from the humble position of a slave to 
that of a gifted woman of world-wide fame ! Who 
can fathom the mysteries of God’s thoughts and ways, 
or measure the consequence of a single deed of our 
lives ? ” said Mr. Arnold as he still kept up his meas- 
ured walk until weariness roused him to a sense of 
the lateness of the hour. He went back to the sitting- 
room but found Elsie had taken her sleeping child 
upstairs, and Dorance too had retired, worn out with 
the varied emotions of the past forty-eight hours. 

Three days from the time of that sad home-coming, 
all that was mortal of Wilbur Alton was laid to rest 
beside the bride of his youth, while this wife of his 
later years was supported on the arm of the son, who 
had nev^’ known his father until death’s black 


190 


Dorance, 


shadow lay between them, and forbade him a sight 
even of the rigid features. 

How he had yearned for a parent’s love and bless- 
ing since he had a knowledge that he was entitled 
to either by every law of man and God, only those 
can say, who, like him, have been deprived of their 
rights as children, and missed the rich treasure of 
parental affection that ought to come with every 
living, trembling soul into this world, where only a 
parent’s hand and heart can bear us safely and kind- 
ly over the many perils that beset our way from the 
very hour of our birth. We may find near and dear 
friends, but the human heart craves the kindred tie 
of a common blood. Only the desolate ones among 
my readers, will know the thought that stirs my soul 
as I try to picture the grief that shook Dorance’s 
frame, and, for a time, made him distrust the loving- 
kindness of his God. 

To Elsie, her husband’s death was the sunshine of 
her existence blotted out forever. It had been a 
tender, true love that bound her to him ; andDorance 
could guess the depth of his fiather’s affection by the 
sacrifice of pride it had cost him to give his proud 
name to the lowly daughter of a despised race. Only 
a God-given love could offer or accept so much, 
while only a warm, passionate nature like Dorance’s 
could understand all the depths of such a holy 
affection. 

As Elsie sat alone in her room during the long, 
slow hours of that night, she recounted all her strange 
history, going over it, bit by bit, up to the present 
time. Crossing the room and unlocking a small 
drawer in her dressing-stand, she took from it a little 


191 


The Mystery Fully Revealed. 

rosewood box and opened it. It contained her 
emancipation papers, written by her husband and wit- 
nessed by his lawyer, also her marriage certificate 
and a half-dozen letters tied together with a ribbon. 
They had been written to her while she was away 
studying music. They were not love-letters in any 
sense of the word, but rather kind, affectionate 
breathings from the one friend and companion of her 
life. She read them all through, then locked them 
away again in the drawer and returned to her seat 
by her child’s crib. 

The hours at last dragged themselves by, and 
morning dawned, bringing with it a more hopeful 
view of the future and banishing a part of the intoler- 
able pain that comes with the darkness to all sad 
hearts. 

Dorance and Mr. Arnold applied themselves to 
the business of settling up the affairs of the deceased 
master of Alton Hall, and then came a journey back 
to Elmwood. 

The thought of meeting her mother cheered Elsie, 
and roused her from her grief as nothing else could 
do. It was the one thing in all her life to look for- 
ward to, she thought. The dear mother, who had 
been a slave all her life, filling a slave’s position to 
her master, while she, the daughter, had lived in 
luxury, believing her mother dead. 

When they reached Elmwood she felt faint with the 
weight of painful emotion, and sank down in the 
chair placed for her, too weak to stand longer. 

“ Will you rest here awhile, or shall I bring your 
mother to you at once ? ” asked Mr. Arnold. 

“ Let me see my mother now,” replied Elsie, and 


192 


Durance, 


he turned away, going into the kitchen to find Aunt 
Chlo’. 

“She up sta’rs in her room, Massa. Guess she not 
gwine to do much moah work in dis hyar worF.” 

The master proceeded to Aunt Ohio’s room and 
knocked at the door. He believed in the right of 
every individual to the privacy of their own room, 
and his high-bred sense of honor held him back from 
intrusion here as truly as from Maud’s or Inda’s 
room. 

“ Come in,” said the familiar voice, and he opened 
the door and entered. Aunt Ohio’ sat by the 
window knitting, and looked up with a kind smile 
as she heard her master’s well-known step. She 
answered his inquiry as to her illness, and its cause. 

Mr. Arnold took her hand, and said in a gentle 
tone : “ My poor woman, I have something that will 
be far better than medicine in your case. I have 
news from your daughter, Elsie.” 

The knitting fell from her hands and dropped 
unheeded to the floor, as she looked at him with 
wild, wide ej^es, the muscles of her face twitching, 
and her breath coming in gasps. 

“Yes; your child is living and well, and her 
strongest wish is to see the mother from whom she 
was parted so cruelly. You wish to see her, don’t 
you?” 

“My daughter? Mars’r, say it again. I didn’t 
quite hear yer. How do you know I eber had a 
chile ? ” 

“I know all your sad story and pity you, but God 
Himself intervened to save you from the conse- 


The Mystery Fully lievealed, 19o 

quences of the awful sin you did Dorance and his 
father.” 

Then the master told of Bess’s confession and of 
his verification of her words, and of the sorrowful 
life of Wilbur Alton. 

A gleam of joy lit up the quadroon’s face as he 
spoke of the bitterness of heart endured by her 
former master, and she muttered hoarsely, “ Yes, I 
thank de Lord fo’ dat ar’ news, Oh, I made him 
feel what it was to live chile’less and still know he 
had a chile in dis yer work ! Oh, Mars’r, what for did 
yer undo my work with Dorance ? ” 

‘‘Because God himself interposed. Wait until I 
tell you how truly he atoned to Elsie for any wrong 
he did either to her or yourself.” 

Then he related the story of Elsie’s education and 
her marriage to tlie master who had humbled his 
pride to his love. 

Again the woman broke forth vehemently : “ No, 
no, Mars’r, they have told yer a wicked lie. It can’t 
be ti’ue. He war too proud for dat. It aiii jes’ a lie. 
Don’t yer b’lieve it at all.” 

“ I swear it is the truth, for your daughter told 
me. She came home to Alton Hall two weeks ago 
with the coffined body of her husband. Dorance 
never saw liis father’s face after you took him from 
the protection of a rightful home, and he has only the 
memory of a coffin and burial in place of the love 
that was his by right of God and man.” 

“ Don’t, Mars’r ! It am hard’nough. Oh, let me 
die and forgit it ! Dear Lord, let me die now, — 
nou)^ 

The head dropped forward and death seemed to be 
13 


194 


Durance. 


stealing her senses, when a cry of ‘‘ Mother, mother !” 
rang through the room and Elsie’s arms clasped the 
shaking form. 

“Elsie, my chile, my chile ! forgive yer pore sinful 
mother ’fore she dies ! ” 

Mr. Arnold went from the room. Dorance stood 
in the hall, and together they waited until the first 
joy of meeting should be past, before intruding their 
presence on the reunited mother and daughter. 
Half an hour passed, and Mr. Arnold opened the door 
again and glanced at the two figures by the window. 
He closed it very softly and walked to the end of the 
hall, where Dorance stood looking out at the dull 
winter scene. 

Another half-hour passed, when a loud cry from 
El^ie startled the servants in the kitchen below, and 
caused the two men to hasten their steps to the 
room. 

Aunt Ohio’ still sat in her chair, her eyes closed, 
and a smile on her face, that would never change 
again until the grave closed over it. The troubled 
heart was at rest and the reunion now would be in 
heaven. 

The household were greatly surprised when they 
learned that Elsie was the daughter of Aunt Ohio’, 
and the wife of Dorance’s father. They could not 
get over their astonishment. An inkling of the truth 
came to the ears of the slaves. For the first time in 
her life, since her duties as cook began, Dinah forgot 
to get the dinner until reminded by the master. 

The strange, sad romance of Elsie’s life was talked 
over and over, and her blind babe was petted and 
kissed until she ivas carried off to bed. Elsie was 


The Mifi<ter}f FuJJff ]ti>eealed. 19r> 

completely prostrated, and Maud and Inda vied with 
each other in their tender care of her. The next 
morning Maud took little Jessie with her for a walk 
in the warm winter sunshine. There was no raw, 
chill wind, such as marks the mildest winter weather 
in our Northern States. The blind child seemed to 
feel the brightness of the day and laughed aloud in 
her glee. Maud walked slowly, talking to the little 
one,* until they came to the negro quarters, where 
she stopped to speak to a group of the slaves, and 
allow them to see the plaintively sweet face of Jessie. 
The blind child would feel over the face and hands 
of a stranger,* as though she were reading them 
through her sense of touch ; and some instinct would 
cause her to turn away from a hard, selfish nature, 
with a quivering lip, while to those whom she liked 
she would almost invariably ask, Does you love 
Jessie ? ” 

Among the slaves, was an old whiteheaded man of 
nearly seventy years, who was known by no other 
name, to the household, than, “ old Uncle Pete.’’ 

Jessie went to him at once. The old man kissed 
her and carried her back to the house, where he lulled 
her to sleep on his breast and then begged to hold her 
until she wakened again, while tears streamed down 
his face and fell on her hair and dress 

Mr. Arnold noticing his sorrowful countenance 
asked him, what troubled him. 

‘‘ Oh, Mars’r, it mos’ breaks my ole heart to see her 
pretty angel face, wif its pore blin’ eyes. I had a 
blin’ chile of my own once, an’ Mars’ Mortimer sol’ it 
cl’ar away from bofe its parents. A pore blin’ baby 
dat was not fit fo’ work. But de oberseer made him 


19G 


I) 0 ranee. 


work, pickin’ de seeds outen de cotton. I hopes do 
good Lord hab took him outen de worF ’fore dis time.” 

“Your master must have been a very wicked man,” 
said Maud with tears in her eyes. 

“ Yes, he war a hard-hearted man. ’Feared like he 
had no feelin’ ’bout anythin’. Oh, T’se seen some 
orful sights on dat ’ar plantation! We pore slabes 
has ter b’ar what you would nebber t’ink yer could 
lib through, but we’se got to stan’ it when our mars’r 
choose to do it. I seed him tie old Barbary to the 
limb ob a tree an’ burn her to de’f. Den he shot a boy 
kase he done toF it. But God makes t’ings eben, in 
His own way. Some time. Miss Maud, de slabes 
turns round on de mars’r, and den dar’s fight in dem. 
Dey kotched Mars’ Mortimer one night an’ hung 
him to the same tree whar he done burnt ole Barbary. 
Den dey tied de oberseer to a horse’s heels an’ started 
him to run. I tells yer, all mars’rs aint like Mars’ 
Arnold.” 

So ended old Uncle Pete’s story, but not so soon 
was it forgotten by those who had heard it. 




The Sinking Ship. 


197 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE SINKING SHIP. 

Out on the broad bosom of the Atlantic is a 
foundering ship. — Oh, who can describe the horrors of 
such a situation ! Yet, more than a hundred souls 
were on board the Virginia^ and in imminent peril at 
the time of which we are writing. They had left the 
shores of France ten days before, the crew and pas- 
sengers all bright with hope and life and health. Six 
days out there had been a severe storm, tossing the 
ship, as though it were a mere toy, from wave to 
wave, sometimes on a foam-crested mountain of 
treacherous water, then down to the depths beneath, 
every joint creaking and straining fore and aft. The 
passengers were huddled together in the cabin, pray- 
ing and weeping, waiting for the storm to abate its 
fury. The wind shrieked tlirough the rigging and 
carried two poor sailors out to sea, their despairing 
cry lost in the black waters ere it reached the ears of 
their fellows. The ship groaned under the pressure 
of the heavy seas which swept the decks clean of 
every movable object. The brave captain stood his 
ground nobly, doing all in his power to save the pre- 
cious lives under his charge, praying from the depths 
of his heart for skill to guide his ship through the 
dangers of the storm, and for strength to resist the 
numbness of despair that was creeping over him, at 
every fresh swell of the angry waters. But a new 
and even more appalling danger threatened them. 


198 


Do ranee. 


Tlie ship had sprung a leak, and every plunge was 
opening this new avenue of death wider and widei\ 
They worked the pumps with desperate energy, but 
still the water gained on them. 

At length the wind abated a little, and a new hope 
sprung up in the hearts of captain and crew. The 
passengers were still ignorant of this last and most 
certain danger, bat when the crew had exhausted 
themselves, the captain called on every man among 
them to help him and his brave lads. Immediately an 
elderly gentleman among them stepped forth and cried, 
“ Come, men ; let us do our part in this struggle for 
life.” 

He was followed by every man in the cabin, and 
they worked like desperate men hour after hour; 
but still the Avater gained in the liold, and at last all 
further effort Avas declared useless. 

The ship was slowly but steadily sinking. 

It was enough to quell the bravest heart, the thought 
of a grave in mid-ocean, Avith anxious and expectant 
friends awaiting the ship’s arrival at Port Landing, 
North Carolina. 

Prayers went up from heai*ts little used to the sac- 
red duty. Groans and cries of anguish burst from 
every heart as the sickening fact Avas borne in on 
their minds. They clung together in groups, fathem 
and mothers straining their children to their hearts — 
husbands and Avives sobbing in each other’s arras. 
Friend stood by friend in that dread suspense. One 
alone of the many passengers on board the Virginia., 
stood apart from the others Avith neither wife nor 
child, friend nor SAveetheart, to share his fears. It 
was the gentleman who had led the others to the 


19U 


The Sinking Ship, 

pumps, when the captain appealed to them for help. 

The reader is somewhat acquainted with him. It 
is William Clyne, Maud Arnold’s stepfather. He is 
thinking of Maud now, and thanking Heaven she is 
on shore, safe from the threatening death. His eyes 
wander over the grouped figures until they rest on a 
young man near him. The wind has died down so 
that conversation is possible. Mr. Clyne speaks to 
him and asks whether he feels that all is hopeless. 

‘‘ I am much afraid it is, sir. My sister is nearly 
distraught with fear. Women cannot bear these hor- 
rors like men. You are fortunate in having no one 
but yourself to be troubled for.” 

“ Yes, I do feel thankful,” replied Mr. Clyne. 

He had some little acquaintance with the young 
man, Ralph Treverly, by name, and his sister Hortense, 
a woman of perhaps thirty-five years of age. They 
had been travelling for some time. 

Ralph Treverly was an artist and an Englishman, 
and had contemplated spending the next year among 
our American scenes. 

This, then, was to be the end of his hope — a grave 
under the waves of the Atlantic. Finally came the 
order to lower the boats. It was their last resort, 
and a desperate one in that weather and on such a sea. 
The ship would hardly float an hour longer. The 
passengers crowded up to the deck at the captain's 
command, every face white as marble, but with no 
confused cries. That was past now. When the boats 
were manned, the order came for the women and 
children to go first. Oh, the anguish of that parting 
moment ! A hurried embrace, a last clinging kiss, 
and husbands saw their wives and children handed 


200 


Doranee, 


over the side of the ship into those frail boats rock- 
ing on the rough waters. Two of the boats were 
already full, and had pulled out a little way from the 
ship, where they seemed but cockle-shells on the 
turbulent waves. 

Two more boats were manned, some food and fresh 
water placed in them, and the last of the women and 
children were passed over the side of the ship into 
them. One woman alone stood firmly by her brother 
and refused to go without him. It was Hortense Trev- 
erly. 

‘‘ Step in, then, some of you men,” said the captain. 

Here is one — two — three — four — five. How many 
are left ? ” 

Sixteen, sir.” 

“ Then push off lads, and God go with you.” 

The last one on board was seated in" the boat, be- 
fore brave Captain Lentz left the deck he had trodden 
through all the dangers of the sea for the last eight 
years. The ship was beginning to tremble from the 
weight of water in her hold as the last boat pulled 
away, out to the open sea. Scarcely had it gone 
four hundred yards from the ship, when a loud, rush- 
ing noise caused them to turn their heads again 
toward the sinking vessel. 

With a last quiver from stern to stern it sank be- 
neath the boiling waters which closed over it with a 
roaring, rushing sound, churning the sea until it was 
white with foam for many yards around, and causing 
the boat to rock uneasily at that distance away. But 
a few yards nearer and it would have been sucked 
into that seething vortex. 

Captain Lentz sobbed aloud at the fate of the pretty 


201 


The Sinking Ship, 

sailing vessel which had seeme a thing of life to him. 
What sailor does not love his ship as truly as though 
it possessed a human soul? When the excitement 
had somewhat abated, the boat in which are our 
friends stood out to the unknown world of waters. It 
was a frightful situation. An open boat on a stormy 
sea, in the piercing winds of winter, with food and 
water enough to last two days, by careful economy. 

Yet, hopeless as the prospect seemed, they were 
willing to endure the suffering, in the hope of being 
taken up by some passing vessel. Need we dwell 
on the horrors of that long night ? When the light 
of another morning broke over the gray waste of 
ocean not one of the other boats was to be seen by 
the straining eyes of Captain Lentz and his suffering 
companions. Had they found a grave at the bottom 
of the sea? It was only too probable they had. Of 
the sixteen persons who had made the last boat-load, 
five had perished during the night. The survivors 
were almost dead with the pitiless cold, their clothes 
frozen on their bodies, and the salt spray hanging in 
long icicles on the men’s beards. They could hold 
on to life but a little while longer. No ship had as 
yet appeared on the horizon. They prayed silently 
for God to look in pity upon them, and send them 
speedy relief. Captain Lentz, who had been scan- 
ning the sea with his glass, suddenly exclaimed : 

‘‘ Bear up, comrades ! there is a ship off to our right. 
We may succeed in signalling it. Give me a white 
cloth, if there is one in the boat.” 

Instant search was made, but nothing large enough 
for a signal was found. 

“ Will one of you gentlemen give me your white 


202 


Bo ranee. 


shirt ? he said, pointing to ilr. Clyne and Treverly. 

Each man rose to remove his coat, but llortense 
Treverly stopped them, saying, ‘‘I can best supply 
our need.” 

She rose weakly to her feet, for the cold had nearly 
paralyzed her, and raising her dress, stripped off one 
of her white underskirts and handed it to the captain. 

God bless you, madam,” he said, as he tied it to 
an oar and raised it aloft. Hardly had he lifted it 
above their heads when a fierce gust of wind tore it 
from his liands and carried it many yards ahead of 
the boat. 

God help us in our extremity I ” cried Captain 
Lentz, in a hoarse voice. Give me another ! Quick, 
the ship is changing her course ! ” 

Mr. Clyne and Ralph Treverly tore their shirts 
from their bodies at the same moment. These were 
fastened to a staff, and a second signal was raised with 
better success. 

And now let us take a glimpse on board the ship 
which our suffering friends are signalling. It is a 
whaler of about seven hundred tons, returning from a 
voyage to the northern seas. It had been carried out of 
its course by the storms of the last five days, and at the 
very moment when the signal was torn from Captain 
Lentz’s hands, was changing back again to its proper 
course. One of the sailors stood leaning against the 
side of the ship, gazing idly out over the waters, 
when a huge wave rose before his vision and swept 
toward the ship. When it had spent itself he noticed 
something white floating on the water. To a person 
in mid-ocean the least thing on the surface is of im- 
portance. It may mean much or little, but a true- 


203 


The Sinldng Ship, 

hearted sailor never passes unnoticed the smallest 
object on the water. So now our new acquaintance, 
whom we will call ‘‘ Bill,” for the sake of a name, 
watched the white object with interest. It was the 
skirt of Hortense Treveiiy, filled with wind and 
scudding over the water, a strange enough looking 
object, at a little distance. Bill watched it for a 
while, then called the others to come and see the 
strange thing. Several of the men came lounging up 
and looked at it as it drifted nearer toward them, some- 
times rolling over and over by the force of the wind 
against its distended breadths. When it had drifted 
close up to the ship’s side. Bill cried out, ‘‘A woman’s 
petticoat. I’ll swear ! ” He roared out laughing, then 
as suddenly stopped. 

“ How comes it out here, mates ? Shiver my 
timbers if thar ain’t somethin’ behint this floatin’ 
thing of muslin ! Fish it up lads, fish it up I say. 
Why it looks like a big white balloon.” 

The captain came up to the group and asked in 
sharp tones what they were standing there for. 

Bill pointed to the strange-looking object and 
asked : “ Cap’n, can you tell us what that ar’ means, 
anyway ? ” 

The captain raised his glass to his eye and nar- 
rowly scanned the horizon. He detected the flap- 
ping white signal first, then the little boat. In ten 
minutes, time he had brought the head of the ship 
round and was bearing down on the little vessel with 
its suffering, dying occupants. 

“ Saved ! Saved ! ” shouted Captain Lentz. “ They 
have changed about and are coming toward us.” 

Half ail hour later they were all on board th« 
Griffin, and bound for New York# 


204 


Dorance* 


CHAPTER XXVI 

NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 

The household at Elmwood Grange were all 
gathered in the parlor. Maud, Inda, and Dorance 
were practicing some new songs Dorance had brought 
home that afternoon. Elda and little Herbie occu- 
pied the sofa, while Mr. Arnold did duty as horse 
or jumping-jack for the sturdy little fellow whose 
ringing laugh made the singers turn their heads some- 
times to see the fun. The blind child had crept to 
Dorance’s side, and held his hand between both of 
hers, while she seemed to have no ears for anything 
but the music. The sombre black robes of Elsie, 
Maud, and Elda were relieved by Inda’s dress of 
lavender silk with knots of rose-colored ribbon at her 
throat and in her hair. She had never looked more 
lovely in her life than to-night, yet of the four ladies 
ill the room she had the least pretension to beauty. 

Just then there came a ring at the hall door, and 
five minutes later Mr. Clyne walked into the room, 
followed by a gentleman and lady. 

“ Papa ! papa ! ” cried Maud, springing to meet 
him. It was some minutes ere the confusion of 
Mr. Clyne’s sudden appearance would permit the 
strangers to come forward and be introduced. 

“My friends, Mr. Ralph Treverly, and Miss Trev- 
erly, his sister.” 

Then came the introductions individually and the 


New Acquaintances, 205 

visitors were seated. There was much to talk about, 
all the incidents of the last six months to be related 
to Mr. Clyne. He gazed with astonishment at Elda. 
They had written him of Herbert’s wife and child, 
but he had never even dreamed of any one so beau- 
tiful. And this was his stepson’s wife ! How could 
a man live a reckless life with such wife and child to 
bless his home ? He took the child in his arms and 
kissed its soft baby cheek, with great tears in his 
eyes. 

They listened with breathless interest to Mr. 
Clyne’s story of the sinking vessel, and the horrors 
that had been endured at sea. They looked shocked 
as he spoke of the number that had gone down to the 
depths, there to await the resurrection. When all 
had been told and they sat for a moment in silence, 
each mind busy with thought, Mr. Clyne turned to 
Maud and said : “ My daughter is ready to go home 
with me, I suppose ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, papa, I shall be glad to see our home in the 
city again, but you will wait until after the wedding, 
will you not ? ” 

“ A wedding ! Then am I to lose you ? ” 

‘‘ Oh no,” replied Maud ; ‘‘ it is Inda and Dorance 
who are to figure as the principal parties.” 

Mr. Clyne shook hands with Dorance and Inda, 
saying as he did so. ‘‘ Mr. Alton, you are a happy 
man, to win such a lovely bride. Why not come 
home with me and be married from my house ? It 
will give you the advantages of the city, and I will 
make it my pleasure to have evervthing pleasant for 
you” 


206 


Jjonuice, 


We will think of it, and let you know hereafter,” 
replied Dorance. 

The wedding day was set for the twelfth of March, 
and after a short tour they would take up their 
residence at Alton Hall, as Dorance’s attention was 
required there. 

Elsie and her child would share their home. 

Dorance left it entirely to Inda whether they 
should be married in Baltimore or in the little church 
at Kaneville. Inda went to Uncle Chester about it, 
but he would not advise her one way or the other. 
She settled the question finally by saying she had 
rather be married in their own home church, with no 
unnecessary show. 

It is too solemn a ceremony to lose half its so- 
lemnity by ostentation. I should like best to take 
your name witli the proper dignity belonging to the 
marriage service, and that would not be the case in a 
grand city wedding.” 

‘‘ Inda, my darling, you have spoken my very 
thought. I am more than glad that you see it in this 
light also. I feared that you might wish for the vain 
show so usual to a wedding, and generally so pleasing 
to a woman’s heart.” 

So they told Mr. Clyne their decision and begged 
Maud to stay until the wedding was over. Ralph 
Treverly was asked to be groomsman, and gave his 
answer in the affirmative. So the days sped by, and 
March came round with all its usual bluster and 
flurry for the first few days. Then began the mild, 
lovely springtime of Southern Virginia. 


Orange Blossoms, 


207 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

ORANGE BLOSSOMS. 

Nature had never looked more beautiful to Inda 
than on the morning of her wedding day. The swell- 
ing buds, the fresh green carpet of the earth, the 
joyous songs of the blithe birds, all seemed to have a 
deeper meaning for her than ever before. 

She rose early and went down to the lake, where 
she stood looking at the new life all about her, and 
thinking that to-day a new life would begin for her 
also. 

A life of love and beauty similar to this of nature, 
only that this would fade with the first frosts of 
winter, while hers would last while she lived. She 
prayed silently, that no blight might come to mar 
the beauty of her wedded life, or dim the happy liglit 
of the future. Her whole soul was filled with a 
rapturous bliss. She went slowly back to the house 
when the breakfast bell rang, her eyes dewy with the 
tears that would come. But they were tears ofglad- 
ness, and came from no other source than her own 
deep feeling. Twelve o’clock was the hour set for 
the marriage service. 

“ Happy the bride whom the sun shines on,” mur- 
mured the old sexton as he unlocked the door and 
went in to see that all was just as it should be. The 
little stone church had been decorated with ever- 
greens and flowers, the altar railing hung with 


208 


Dorance, 


festoons of arbutus and white roses, while immedi- 
ately above where the bridal couple were to stand, 
was suspended a bower of green and white. Every 
window was decorated with bright-hued flowers set 
in a background of green, and the organ was half 
buried in a wealth of floral beauty. 

Inda gave one long, earnest look at herself in the 
mirror ere she and Maud descended to the parlor, 
where Dorance and Ralph awaited them. Very 
lovely they looked in their white trailing robes. 
Inda’s dress was of shimmering satin and lace, her 
only ornaments a necklace of superb pearls, and a 
coronet of the same pure gems holding her bridal veil 
in place. These had been Dorance’s gift to his 
bride. 

He laid his arm about her shoulders and kissed her 
Vith a fervor that made him tremble. 

Maud and Ralph stood together at the window. 
The young Englishman thought Maud a very beauti- 
ful girl as he looked at her bright face and shapely 
form. Her face was flushed with excitement and her 
dark eyes shone like stars. 

There will be another wedding soon and Maud 
and I will be the principal actors, if I can bring it 
about,” thought Ralph Treverly to himself. 

The church was crowded to its utmost with eager 
spectators. The bridal party moved down the aisle 
to the music of the wedding march, and the gray- 
haired minister rose and spoke the old, old words, 
that are yet ever new. Dorance gave his responses 
in deep tones that trembled with emotion, while 
Inda’s voice was clear and firm. 


Orange Blossoms, 209 

Tliey knelt to receive the blessing, then turned and 
left the church. 

Never had Kaneville seen so splendid a wedding. 
The story of Durance’s birth had become known far 
and near, and he was looked upon as a hero. Not 
even in old aristocratic Baltimore would the bride 
and groom have received half the admiration they did 
from their old acquaintances of Kaneville. 

Maud could hardly restrain her mirth at seeing the 
eager-eyed crowd as thej’’ left the church. 

When they were at Elmwood again, and had re- 
ceived the congratulations of all the friends, and were 
seated at the table, Maud felt free to speak. She was 
sparkling with wit and fun. Her uncle turned the 
laugh on her at last by saying : ‘‘ I am afraid the ex- 
citement of a wedding is not good for you, my dear 
Maud You will be for getting married yourself 
now.” 

‘‘ Yes uncle, I am going to marry the first one that 
asks me. I think it is great fun. But I am going to 
have my wedding on a grand scale. Remember that, 
papa.” 

Maud glanced up and caught Ralph Treverly’s eye 
fixed on her with a quizzical expression. She blushed 
crimson and looked down at her plate, half vexed 
with herself. But in a moment it was forgotten and 
she was chatting as gaily as ever with him. 

At six o’clock Dorance and his bride had bid adieu 
to their friends and were driven to the village. They 
were to make a short trip to the Northern States 
before going to Alton Hall. 

Ralph Treverly and Maud accompanied them and 

stood talking with them until the boat came up, jar- 
14 


210 


Dor a nee. 


ring and quivering as though impatient to rush away 
again. Maud waved her handkerchief to them as 
long as she could see them, and when the boat was 
lost to view behind the hills, she burst into tears, 
crying bitterly at the separation. She and Inda 
would never again know the sweet, care-free days 
they had spent together at Elmwood plantation. 
Inda had other duties and another friend who would 
always come first in all her thoughts and plans for the 
future. 

The next morning Elsie and her child, with old 
Uncle Pete, left Elmwood, for their home in Ten- 
nessee. It had been a hard struggle for Pete to bid 
farewell to all at Elmwood plantation, and go among 
a strange set of people, but his love for the blind 
child was stronger than all else. So, with tears run- 
ning down his aged face, he mounted the box by Sam, 
waved his hand in a last adieu and was driven away 
from them all. 

Mr. Clyne was the next to go. He went to the 
city to have everything prepared for the arrival of the 
otiiers. Ralph waited to go with the women, he said, 
although Mr. Clyne guessed pretty closely to the 
truth when he judged Maud’s presence had some- 
thing to do with his staying behind. 

Mr. Clyne thought it was the longest two weeks 
he had ever spent in his life, before the others came, 
and when they were there the time seemed to slip 
away almost unawares. 

They spent the mornings in sight-seeing, and talked 
together in the dining-room and parlors in the after- 
noons. In the evenings they went to the operas and 
theatres. A room v^as fitted \i\) as Ralph’s studio 


Orange Blossoms. 


211 


after a few weeks spent in this wise, and then he 
settled down to his work. Maud spent many hours 
here with him, looking over his shoulder at the 
picture slowly growing under his hand, into lifelike 
beauty. This picture was always kept under lock 
and key when they left the room, and he and Maud 
looked with knowing glances at each other when Mr. 
Clyne or Hortense asked what he was working at so 
patiently. 

It is a surprise for you both,” he would reply. 

Let us look over his shoulder too, at the large 
canvas on the easel. It is a full length portrait of 
Elda and her baby. How very beautiful it is. It 
almost seems to breathe, so true to life is it. She 
stands before an urn of flowers, her form showing 
clearly against the dark background of trees and 
shrubs. The child in her arms is reaching out to 
touch the trailing vines, her black dress set off by 
the child’s dainty white robe, and the little chain 
which she always wears gleams brightly mid the soft 
lace at her throat. She is looking into the child’s 
innocent face with a mother’s strong, tender love 
beaming from her dark eyes. It is a true and faithful 
likeness, sketched one morning at Elmwood, when 
Elda had stood on the lawn in just that position, with 
Herbie in her arms. 

When the picture was finished it was carried down 
stairs and hung up in the drawing-room in a good 
light, for the inspection of Mr. Clyne and Hortense 
Treverly. 

The latter was the first to see it, and her exclama- 
tions of surprise and delight drew Mr. Clyne’s atten- 
tion to it. He stood before it without a word of 


212 


Dorance, 


comment for a long time, then turning to Ralph, 
said, My friend, what is the value of your picture ? 
I must ha^e it at any cost. Remember it is my 
stepson’s wife and child.” 

The words and manner repaid the young artist 
more than mere dollars and cents could do, and with 
glistening eyes he replied : 

It is yours, Mr. Clyne, if you consider 1 have 
done justice to my subject.” 

Remonstrance on Mr. Clyne's part was of no avail. 
Raljrh's only reply was that the happiest hours of 
his life had been spent in painting it. 

He was a genius with the brush, in the highest 
sense of the word. He loved his work and never 
tired of sketching and painting the beautiful in 
nature or life. 

Elsie and lier blind babe were the next subjects 
that found a place in his thouglits as worthy his 
talent. 

Maud spent the greater of tlie day in the 

studio with him. 

One afternoon she said to him, Do I annoy you 
by coming liere so much ? Would you rather I stayed 
away ? ” 

He laid down his brush, and swinging liimself 
around on his stool, faced her as he replied, ‘‘ Maud, 
I wish you would come to me for good and all, while 
we both live. Will you ? ” 

He caught her hand but Maud drew it away, and 
turning him back to his work, gave him Ids brush 
again, saying. “ Don’t let us talk nonsense. Finish 
this bit of landscape here in the corner.” 

He smiled and did as she bade him, but he had 


Orange Blossoms* 


213 


caught the glad light in her eyes, and he worked 
under the inspiration of it for many days afterwards, 
although no further word of love passed his lips. 

And where all this time were Dorance and Inda ? 
They had visited New York and Washington cities, 
the Falls of Niagara, and Montreal, and had settled 
down for a few weeks at a quiet, little village near 
the lakes. 

They were too happy to care for a fashionable 
resort, and so had rented a cottage and hired a house- 
keeper, and were spending the hot days of June and 
July on the shores of Lake Ontario. They had 
written to Elsie to come to them, but she refused, 
saying she was better content at home. 

Uncle Chester and Elda were coming in a week or 
two, and Inda was in a happy flutter of preparation 
for them. 

What a happy evening they spent when they had 
come. It only lacked Maud’s ringing laugh and witty 
replies to make it complete. The next morning Inda 
and Elda together wrote her a long, loving letter, 
urging her to come, and telling how they missed her. 
Maud replied to Inda, saying she would come since 
Uncle Chester and Elda had spoiled the solemn 
pleasure of their honeymoon anyway. So expect 
me next week, but not alone, mind you. I never 
travel alone nowadays. Mr. Treveiiy and his sister 
will be with me. Have you room for so many? If 
not, hire another cottage, and meantime remember as 
your loving friend and sister, — Maud.” 

Inda found her cottage plenty large enough for 
them all, when they came. Maud was the life of the 
party. She proposed, when the evening meal was 


214 


Dorance. 


over, that they all take a stroll on the beach, to enjoy 
the moonlight and get the cool breeze. Ralph appro- 
priated her, however, and they wandered away from 
the others and sat down on the dry sand, looking at 
the scene before them in silence for some time. Ralph 
was the first to speak. 

‘‘Maud, do you know I am puzzled to read you 
rightly ? When I have formed an opinion and think 
it a correct one, your next sentence will show I am 
mistaken.” 

“ Do you think me so fickle as that, then? ” asked 
Maud. 

“ No, not fickle, when you choose to be serious ; 
but were you ever really in earnest in your life ? ” 

“ Yes, before you knew me, awhile, life seemed 
very serious indeed to me. You and your sister have 
helped to make me forget my trouble in a measure, 
but so long as I live the bitterness must remain in 
part. It was a reckless brother whose crime and 
sudden death brought me very near death’s door. I 
will tell you all, and beg you will not mention it 
before Elda, for she knows nothing of Herbert’s 
sins.” 

In low sorrowful tones, Maud told of Herbert’s 
reckless ways and the terrible ending of his wasted 
life. When she had finished, silence again fell 
between them, and again Ralph’s voice was the first 
to break it. 

“ Maud, you have had your trouble. I have had 
mine, but believing that I could bear any cross that 
might be laid upon me with you by my side, and 
feeling I have the power to make your life a happy 


Orange Blossoms. 


215 


one, I ask you to love me and accept my love. 
Maud, will you? 

He held out his hands to her, and she laid her own 
in them.” 

Yes, Ralph. I will.” 

It was all the answer she made, but it was like 
Maud, straightforward and truthful. He kissed her 
reverently, and they walked back slowly to the cot- 
tage, where they found the others awaiting them. 

Inda went upstairs with Maud to her room. 

“ Do you think you and Mr. Treverly will take 
the cottage this summer, Maud ? ” 

‘‘I think not, Inda. We will probably take the 
steamer for England.” 


216 


Doranc^ 


CHAPTER XXVIIL 

A CHAPTER OF SUNDRIES. 

Four weeks more of happy retirement at the little 
village, of rambling on the pebbly shores of the lake, 
or through the dark pine woods that skirted it, and 
the party at Lakeview broke up, never again to all 
meet at that beautiful, rural spot where they had 
enjoyed so much of pleasure during the long, golden 
summer days. 

Dorance and Inda left for their Southern home, 
where Elsie and little blind Jessie awaited their com- 
ing with warm, yearning hearts. 

The old home had grown almost unbearable to the 
sad woman in its quiet loneliness. She looked for- 
ward to the coming of Dorance and Inda with a 
longing for their companionship. So the young 
couple met a warm welcome when they arrived at 
Alton Hall. 

Inda kissed her husband’s stepmother, with a real 
affection, which touched Elsie’s tender feelings to 
tears. She led Inda up to her apartments, which had 
been selected and refurnished, by Elsie’s direction, in 
a tasteful manner and with a harmony of color that 
pleased Inda’s quiet yet artistic ideas. She thanked 
Elsie in warm words for taking so much thought for 
her. 

Those were glad, golden days to Inda, and Dor- 
ance found much of real happiness in them, although 


217 


A Chapter of Sundries, 

it was tinged some^yllat wiili sorrow for the father 
whom he had never known, till death separated them. 

Together they went all over the plantation, and 
Dorance made some changes in its management. He 
rebuilt the cabins for the negroes, and furnished them 
with more of comfort and convenience than is gen- 
erally allowed to slaves. Dorance had no fears of 
making them lazy or insolent. He knew the surest 
way to their hearts was by kindness and considera- 
tion for their welfare. 

In da took all the responsibilities of the household 
affairs from Elsie’s shoulders, yet she deferred her 
judgment to the elder ladj' on all doubtful points. 
They made the lotiely woman feel that she had still 
an interest in her home. 

Old Uncle Pete was overjoyed to have Dorance and 
Inda so near him again. It seemed like a link 
between him and the old home at Elmwood planta- 
tion, he said. He would follow Dorance over the 
place, talking of the old friends and wondering 
whether he should ever see any of them again. He 
was much surprised one day as he came back to the 
house to see Chester Arnold sitting on the veranda, 
liolding little Jessie on his knee. He drew a quick, 
hard breath like a sob, and kissed his old master’s 
hand in an ecstasy of delight. Mr. Arnold was 
touched at seeing the old negro’s devotion to him, 
and told him incidents pertaining to Elmwood and 
liis friends there. 

Elda and Herbie were visiting Maud in the city, 
and Uncle Chester had deemed it a convenient time 
to visit ‘‘ his children ” as he still called Dorance and 
Inda. 


218 


Dormice. 


Maud was to be married in the spring, and would 
go with her husband to England. Ralph had plead, 
for an early marriage, but Mr. Clyne urged them to 
wait until spring, as he could not endure to be left so 
lonely just yet. Ralph thought he would not be left 
lonely, if Hortense could be persuaded to change her 
name. But they acquiesced to his wishes, and Ralph 
devoted his time to his art. 

At Dorance’s request he painted his own and 
Inda’s portraits. They were sent to Alton Hall 
when finished, and hung in the long library, with 
the other family portraits, where they were admired 
as real gems of art. 

Mr. Clyne had offered every inducement to Ralph 
Treverly to stay in America, but Ralph was too 
thorough an Englishman, and loved his English home 
too well, to become an American citizen. It was 
enough, he added, with a smile, that his sister was 
intending to become an American. He and his wife 
should still be English. 

Don’t try to make me too much English,” Maud 
would say. I am an American, you know, and have 
a great reverence for my own country, though I will 
try to be a good English wife.” 

“ Well, we will never quarrel about our nation- 
ality, I am sure, if you always remain the same as 
you are now,” Ralph would reply. 

But I won’t always be as. I am now. I will grow 
old and ugly, and cross, and then the American will 
crop out of me. Do you think you will stand the 
change with a good grace, sir?” 

‘‘ I will risk it, at least. You will always be Maud 
to me.” 


219 


A Cliafier of Sundries, 

At length April again smiled over the green earth, 
and the day of Maud’s wedding was near at hand. 

Uncle Chester and Elda, Dorance and his wife were 
there to witness the marriage, and bid her farewell 
before she left them for her home in England. 

Maud had kept her word, and the wedding was to 
be on a grand scale. She inspected the dresses when 
they came, witli eager delight, then sat down and 
cried her eyes red, because she was leaving all her 
friends so far behind her. 

She was still the same impulsive, warm-hearted 
Maud she had ever been. Elda was almost heart- 
broken at the thought of Maud’s departure. 

They occupied the same room, now that the house 
was full of guests, and they seemed to cling to each 
other with a fonder affection than is usually found be- 
tween sisters-in-law. Maud was generally cheerful 
before the others, but to Elda, her dead brother’s 
wife, she opened her heart and wept tears of bitter 
sorrow that she was leaving all her dear friends so 
far behind her. 

On the last evening before the wedding Maud went 
to the cemetery to visit the graves of her parents for 
the last time. She knelt down and buried her face 
ill the green grass over her mother’s breast, and gave 
way to the stormy grief which had been repressed all 
day before her friends. She rose, after a long time, 
and saw Ralph standing near her. He had followed 
her from the carriage and witnessed all her agony of 
tears, but said nothing, knowing it would relieve her 
overcharged heart. He placed his arms about her, 
and let her weep out her sorrow on his bosom. He 
knew it was hard for her to leave all that had made 


•220 


TJomnci^ 


life dear to her, and go alone wiih him to a ^itraiige 
land. But he knew also that she loved him more and 
better than all the world beside. He led her to the 
carriage, and gave orders to the driver to take a round- 
about way home. 

All through the course c>f tlie evening, the tears 
would moisten her eyes, and lier lips quiver with the 
rising emotion of her heart. 

Twenty -four hours more and she would be speed- 
ing her way from the shores of her own country, per* 
haps forever. There was little gayety that evening 
among the party assembled in the elegant parlors, 
although there had been a wedding that morning, 
and Hortense Treverly had taken Mr. Clyne’s name, 
and would preside over his house for the future. 

Morning found them all in better spirits. Eacli 
one put aside their own sorrow and was cheerful for 
the bride’s sake. 

Maud looked like an Empress, in her rich robe of 
brocade satin spangled with pearls. It was a hand- 
some bride, indeed, that stood before the altar, and 
gave all that made life so beautiful to her into the 
keeping of another. Yet her friends felt no fear for 
her. They thoroughly believed in the integrity of 
the young liusband and his ability to make her life a 
blest one. 

When the ceremony was ended and the congratu- 
lations said, when the sumptuous dinner had been 
eaten, and Maud stood ready in her travelling dress, 
then it was that the true meaning of the word fare* 
Avell came to her. 

She threw herself on Elda’s neck with wild sobs, 
and clung to her and little Herbie, until Uncle 


A Chapter of SiiiiJries. 


221 


Chester drew her away and carried her out to the 
waiting carriage. 

She waved her hands to them as the carriage 
drove off, then laid her head on her husband’s 
shoulder, and wept the fountain of tears dry. She 
left a sorry lot of faces behind her. Even Uncle 
Chester sat down in the hall and covered his face with 
his hands, while Herbie came up to him and touched 
Ins liair with his soft baby-fingers without being no- 
ticed for once. Maud had been very dear to them. 
They had hardly realized how dear, until she was 
gone from them. We will not follow her in all her 
journeyings. 

Suffice it to say she was really and truly happy in 
her beautiful English home, and made a good wife, as 
she had said she would do. Time, that wears off the 
rough edge of all sorrow, healed her grief and recon- 
ciled her to her lot, which had been cast so far from 
the land of her birth. She did not forget to write 
long and loving letters to them all, describing her 
surroundings, the people with whom she came in con- 
tact, everything that amused or interested her. 

Mr. Clyne and his wife were as happy as younger 
lovers could be, though in a quiet way. 

Eighteen months after Maud’s marriage they wrote 
the good news that a little daugliter had come to take 
her place. If Maud could have seen them bending 
over the crib, looking down at the little face on the 
pillow, she would have known that this little rhild 
had more than taken her place in her stepfather’s 
home ; that none else, however dear, could fill the 
father’s heart like his own child, and that, the “ blos- 
som of his later years ” as he termed it. 


222 


Dorance, 


Uncle Chester lives in quiet retirement at Elm- 
wood Grange, with Elda and little Herbie, who has 
grown to be quite a boy in boots and jacket. 

Elda is still true to the memory of her husband^ 
however unworthy he may have been, of her love. 
She has never heard the wretched story of his crimes. 

There is a young surgeon whohaslately opened an 
office in Kaneville, and who is a frequent caller at 
Elmwood Grange. Uncle Chester regards him favor- 
ably, and winks slyly to himself as he notices that 
Elda’s face is rosy when Doctor Harold is announced. 
He always keeps Herbie out of the way at these times, 
and smiles as he thinks how he managed to sprain his 
ankle and have Dr. Harold called to attend it, and 
kept him calling long after his ankle was well. Sam 
and Zulu nod and wink mysteriously too, when they 
see the young doctor come so often. They ‘‘ kin see 
which way de wind am bio win.’ ” 

For Dorance and Inda, life has never yet lost the 
rosy flush that first made it so beautiful to them. 
Their’s is a perfect happiness, (in so far as God allows 
us to be happy,) with ‘‘ the peace that passes all un- 
derstanding,” and that reflects the light of His own 
holy love, through their human affection, lifting it up 
toward the Infinite source of all true love. They 
have never forgotten Uncle Chester’s words to them, 
when the mystery was revealed, that had shadowed 
tlieir lives. Don’t forget to give God the praise for 
all your great joy, my children.” 

It is the true secret of the perfect trust and peace, 
that seems to brood over their home, lending it a bit 
of the glory that is typical of our home beyond. Love 
of God first, then the human affection. 


A Qhapter of Sundries. 


223 


Blind Jessie is rocking and singing to one of their 
chief joys, in the shape of a wee babe of three months. 
Uncle Pete sits near the cradle and watches the blind 
child as she sings to the new-comer, whom she accepts 
as a precious gift to herself, more than to any one 
else. She was allowed to choose the name, and after 
much thought suggested “ Inda May.” It was deemed 
an appropriate name, for, as Dorance said, it was a 
sweet May blossom first opening its eyes to the light 
of this world, with the birth of that sweetest of 
months. 

Old Uncle Pete has been installed body-guard of 
all the future babies of Alton Hall so long as he lives, 
and a faithful, trustworthy one he is. His old age is 
as happy as that of the Governor of the State, perhaps 
more so, who can tell ? 

Elsie sighs as she watches little Jessie’s motherly 
care of the babe. Her darling must always be blind 
to the beauty of this world, and the mother prays she 
may be shielded from all its sins and suffering as well. 
The child has inherited the mother’s genius for music, 
and Dorance says it will be her life work by and by 
to teach others the lesson of her own sweet faith by 
her rare gift. 

Yes, God has given thee a mission here and will 
leach thee how best to fulfill it. He will never forsake 
thee, sweet, blind Jessie. 


FINIS. 




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